And All We Need of Hell
by lbrokaw24
Summary: Sequel now available. Teenlock fic: Basically, John is a BAMF and Sherlock is an alluring, intriguing, mysterious character with a haunted past. The more John tries to get close to Sherlock, however, the more Sherlock's past prevents him from letting John in. Still, John is patient and tries to help Sherlock work through it. TW: self-harm, suicidal thoughts, and past sexual abuse.
1. Chapter 1

My life closed twice before its close

It yet remains to see

If Immortality unveil

A third event to me

So huge, so hopeless to conceive

As these that twice befell

Parting is all we know of heaven

And all we need of hell.

-Emily Dickinson

John Watson leaned against the balcony railing and stared down upon the empty street below lit by the pale glow of lampposts. A hum of idle chatter drifted out of the open doors. John couldn't remember whose house this was or whether they attended Paddington Academy or not. It was just another party, just another chance for his rugby teammates to get drunk and hit on girls and bask in the limelight. John had to get away from it all. Even when he was standing amongst the crowd, one of the most well-known and well-liked kids at school, he felt terribly lonely.

He looked down at the smudged phone number written on the back of his hand. The girl had been nice enough, but after a long string of shallow, unsatisfying relationships, John wasn't eager to jump into another one. He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes and took a deep breath of the cool night air. A slight breeze ruffled the petals of the fragrant flowers clinging to the marble columns and wafted their subtle scent up to the balcony. John allowed himself to enjoy a moment of peace, dreading having to go back inside.

An airplane passed overhead. John looked up and watched its path through the starlit sky, and that's when he noticed. Someone was standing at the very edge of the roof.

John was on the fourth floor, but he saw there was a way up to the roof on the fifth. The highest window led out onto a widow's walk, and part of the roof angled down, providing access up to the ledge overlooking the ground below.

The boy on the ledge was standing with his arms outstretched. His eyes were closed, and angular features of his thin, pale face were illuminated in the lamplight. Dark curls fringed around his forehead and his ears and the nape of his neck, and the boy's lips were slightly parted. John was aware by now that he fancied blokes as well as girls, but this was first time he found himself thinking, _God, that's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen._

After a few seconds of awestruck silence, John gave himself a little shake and remembered why he was up here. Holding his breath, John walked up behind the boy slowly with one hand outstretched. He didn't reach out to touch him, but he kept one hand a few inches from the boy's coat tails in case he accidently startled the poor kid and sent him flying over the edge.

John cleared his throat and muttered, "You alright, mate?"

The boy didn't move. "Yes, I'm quite alright, thank you," he said shortly.

"Um, well do you mind if I ask what you're doing up here?"

"It's an experiment," the boy responded. "I'm just imaging what it would be like taking the leap, feeling the air rush past me as I fall, the sudden impact when my body hits the ground."

"Right, yeah," John said, growing more concerned. "If you're done now, could you step down from there? You're making me nervous."

At this, the boy opened his eyes and glanced down at John. "Why do you care? Most people would pay good money to see me jump off a building." The low rumble of his aristocratic voice struck a chord inside John.

"I guess I'm not most people," John muttered.

"No, you're not." The boy finally stepped down from the ledge took a seat in the corner. He lit a cigarette with slender fingers, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on John's face. He didn't have to study him for very long before he said, "So you're up here for the same reason I am, then?"

"What reason is that?"

"You're bored."

John looked the other boy up and down again and realized he'd seen him at school before. This was Sherlock Holmes, the kid that could tell your whole life story just by looking at you, the kid that everyone talked about, but nobody spoke to. Except when they called him a freak, of course, but that was because they could see how inhumanly brilliant he was, and they hated him for it. John, though, was entranced by him.

Sherlock took another drag from his cigarette. "This is nice. I don't often have the luxury of saying very much without getting beaten up for it. That's a lesson I learned in primary school. Dannie sometimes listens, but I'm not always sure whether she can hear me or if she's having another one of those temporal lobe seizures. She tries to hide it sometimes, pretend it isn't happening."

John furrowed his brow. _Who's Dannie?_ he wondered. _His girlfriend?_ Then he stopped himself. Why would that bother him?

Sherlock sighed and tapped the end of the cigarette. "The poor girl has probably shut herself in the coat closet again. You wouldn't think it, but going to these things is always her idea. She thinks it's good for me to get out. We have to show up an hour late once everyone's sufficiently inebriated so that our presence goes unnoticed, but it makes for very interesting deductions. Of course eventually she wanders off and leaves me on my own in hopes that I might find someone else to talk to."

John smiled. "Well, it seems like you have."

An uncomfortable silence followed. Sherlock slowly exhaled a ring of smoke and muttered, "Are you going back inside soon?"

"I don't know. Why? Do you want me to go?"

Sherlock shook his head, "It's just… I should probably leave soon. I never stay at these things for very long, and I need to get Dannie out of here… and, well…"

"Well what?"

"I don't make a habit of asking people for favors, but I'd like to make a clean exit. I've made it through most of the night without drawing much attention to myself, and I want to keep it that way. If you go in ahead of me, no one will notice Dannie and me heading for the door, not when they see John Watson walk into the room."

"You know my name?"

"Of course I know your name." Sherlock snuffed out the cigarette on the ledge and jumped to his feet. "So how about it then?"

"Sure," John muttered. "Ready when you are."

Sherlock followed John down the side of the roof to the fifth story window. John kept glancing back to make sure Sherlock was still there. The music had been turned down, but the gaggle of teenagers on the first floor was now louder than ever. Sherlock stayed ten steps behind John on the staircase and paused for a moment near the landing before dashing through the crowd towards the coat closet. John watched Sherlock rush by as his teammates drew around him at the center of the room.

"There he is!" Anderson shouted over the commotion. "Where'd you run off to mate? I was just talking you up to that Sarah girl."

"I just stepped out to get some fresh air," John said, feigning a smile.

Sebastian elbowed him in the ribs. "Well she's a sure thing anyways, eh Johnny boy?"

John wasn't listening. He was staring over the shoulders of the people in front of him and watching Sherlock as he reached into the coat closet and pulled a girl out of the dark depths. She was a tiny thing. Her big brown seemed to take up half of her small, pale face framed by long blond hair with subtle tones of honey and copper. What stood out the most, though, was the scar. It ran from the corner of her forehead down the bridge of her nose, dashed left across her cheek, and then slanted down towards her chin. It looked like the lightning scar from the Harry Potter books, except it took up half of her face.

Sherlock guided the girl across the room, his hands resting lightly on her shoulders in a brotherly sort of way. "Come on, let's get you back to Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson will start to worry soon."

"You should check in with her now and then," Dannie piped up in her small voice. "She worries a lot about you too, you know."

"She's your foster mother, not mine," he murmured. "I get enough concern from Mycroft. He's probably sending a car for me now as we speak."

"Hey, John, what're you staring at?" Anderson said, waving his hand in front his face. "Christ, how much have you had to drink tonight?"

"I'm fine," John muttered. He continued to watch as Sherlock made his slow progression towards the door, stopping every few seconds to shield Dannie from the occasional flying object.

When he finally reached the exit, Sherlock glanced back at John, who gave him a small nod. Sherlock shot him a quick smile, though it seemed more like a nervous reflex than anything else. Then he raised a hand and gave an awkward little wave. If anyone else had been watching, they would have been shocked. It wasn't something Sherlock normally did.


	2. Chapter 2

The following Monday John went to school with a splitting headache. He hadn't gotten very much sleep over the weekend. For some reason his mind kept flitting back to the beautiful yet troubling image of that scrawny, dark-haired boy standing on the roof. _Had Sherlock really just been bored?_ John wondered. _What would have happened if I hadn't gone up to check on him?_

Sebastian and Anderson were waiting near the front row when John walked into English class. They waved him over, and he reluctantly took a seat at the table with them, not really in the mood to talk.

"So, did you give that Sarah girl a call yet?" Anderson asked.

"No, I was busy this weekend," John muttered, crossing his arms over his books and resting his chin on top. He knew it was no use trying to explain to them that he wasn't really that interested in Sarah. Guys like Anderson and Sebastian took every chance they got to shag a girl even if they weren't keen on seeing her again after. If they paid any attention, though, they would know that John wasn't like that. At all.

"Come on," Sebastian whispered. "If you don't make a move soon, Tristan will snatch her up. He was hovering around her for hours Friday night."

John's headache was starting to get worse. He massaged his eyelids with the tips of his fingers and mumbled, "That's fine. If he likes her then let him go for it."

The bell finally rang and the rest of the class found their seats as Mrs. Turner walked in. She called for silence and pulled out the class roster. John closed his eyes, knowing that he wouldn't have to respond for another few minutes since his name was at the bottom of the list. Halfway though roll call, however, he heard Mrs. Turner say the name, "Holmes?"

Everyone turned their heads toward the back of the room. Sherlock was sitting alone at a table near the window and staring down at a laptop screen. Mrs. Turner called his name again, and he slowly raised a hand in the air to let her know that he was present. She didn't bother telling him off for using his laptop in class without her permission. It was an old skirmish she wasn't willing to fight anymore.

After taking up the homework, Mrs. Turner handed out a worksheet and allowed the students to pass them along to each other. "You can pair up and work on these together, but I had better not see anyone on their phones," she warned.

John glanced back and noticed that the worksheets had been successfully dispersed around the room, but no one had given one to Sherlock. A girl was walking up the front to hand the remainders to Mrs. Turner, but John stopped her along the way and grabbed an extra one. Then he took a deep breath, gathered his books, and marched courageously to the back of the room, ignoring the stares and whispers that followed him.

Even under the harsh glare of florescent lights the very sight of Sherlock was breathtaking. The solid black t-shirt he was wearing clung to his slim shoulders and exposed his collarbone. His thumbs were hooked under purposefully cut holes at the end of his sleeves, but the long, slender fingers of his slightly oversized yet graceful hand were visible as Sherlock typed quickly, lightly pressing the square black keys.

"That's a dangerous move," Sherlock muttered, keeping his eyes fixed on the computer screen. "People will talk."

John smiled. "People do little else." It might have been his imagination, but he thought he saw smile twitch in the corner of Sherlock's mouth. "So what are you doing?"

"I'm working on a case."

"A case?"

"A murder case. My brother's copper boyfriend sometimes consults me on cases that he's working when he's out of his depths." He scanned over an email from D.I. Lestrade and opened an attached file showing an image of a corpse, "Heart condition, obvious," Sherlock muttered to himself. "Anti-coagulants sped up the blood loss."

"Right, yeah," John muttered, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. "Well, this is what we're supposed to be working on."

John slid the extra worksheet toward Sherlock. The boy didn't respond for about five minutes, but then he looked up at John as if he'd only just heard him speak. "Oh," he said softly. "Thank you." He opened his binder and took out a stapled packet of loose-leaf paper and scanned the pages for about a minute before turning to the worksheet and filling in all the blanks at lightning speed.

"Here," Sherlock said, handing the packet to John. "These are Dannie's notes. She has an excellent verbal memory."

John raised his eyebrows. "I didn't think a genius like you would need to borrow someone else's notes."

"I can never pay attention in class," Sherlock muttered, finishing the e-mail and closing the laptop. "All the tedious drabble that comes out of our teachers' mouths always ends up getting blocked out or deleted. Usually I just read the textbook, but this is faster."

"So," John said, biting his lip, "you and Dannie are just friends, then?"

"Study partners," Sherlock responded. He slumped over against the table and laid his forehead on his arms. "I don't have friends."

* * *

At lunchtime, John sat at the table in the canteen surrounded by his rugby friends and prodded at the food on his tray with a fork. He didn't feel very hungry.

"I can't believe it," Tristan said, staring at John from across the table. "You voluntarily went over to talk to that freak?"

John raised an eyebrow at him. "So what?

"Nobody in their right mind ever goes near him. The only person who does hang around him is that weird girl with the huge scar on her face." Tristan pointed towards the window, and John turned around and saw Sherlock and Dannie sitting just outside in the courtyard. Sherlock was leaning up against the wall with knees tucked up to support the notebook he was writing on. Dannie simply sat and watched the birds hopping along the sidewalk. Tristan scoffed. "She did that to herself, you know. Apparently some bloke tried to snog her in the hallway, and she showed up at the next class with blood still dripping down her face. That's the company he keeps, if that tells you anything."

It took John a moment to process this information. He couldn't imagine what could have been going through the poor girl's mind that made her want to cut her own face. He turned back to Tristan. "So what are they, then? Friends? Girlfriend, boyfriend? Did they used to date?"

"God no," Anderson interjected. "She's a frigid bitch, and he's a faggot." He saw the incredulous look on John's face and took it as shock at the news and not at his appalling word choice. "Seriously, that's why she hangs around him all the time, because she knows he's the one guy in this school who won't try to get into her pants."

John's resolve to be civil finally broke. "Or maybe it's just that he's not a misogynist prick." He got up and walked away, leaving his tray and his befuddled teammates behind.

* * *

Sherlock kept his eyes on his notebook when John entered the courtyard, but he recognized the militaristic quality in the sound of his footsteps. He didn't need Dannie thwacking him on the shins and whispering, "Sherlock, someone's approaching us."

When John drew near enough, he smiled down at Dannie. "Um, hi, I don't think we've met. My name's John. You're Dannie, right?"

Dannie's jaw dropped. With her hair tucked behind her ears, she looked like a shell-shocked elf. "Sherlock," she whispered. "Sherlock, look. He's making eye-contact with me."

Sherlock continued to stare down at his knees. "Lot's of boys look at you, Dannie. You're a very pretty girl," he muttered with an air of nonchalance.

Dannie thwacked him on the shins again. "But he's talking to me and smiling at me like he's not creeped out at all."

Sherlock finally glanced up at John's face. John was still standing there smiling amiably, unsure of what to say. "Interesting," Sherlock muttered.

"He's special, this one. Isn't he?" Dannie said brightly.

"I suppose so," Sherlock responded, "but I think talking about someone in the third person while they're standing right in front of you might be one of those things that makes people uncomfortable."

"Oh right, sorry," Dannie chirped, smiling up at John. "Have a seat if you'd like."

John backed up against the wall and slid down beside them. "So you're working on school stuff?"

"Sherlock's translating the visual diagrams and pictures in my homework into word maps," Dannie answered, "I can't remember any image for more than five minutes because my right temporal lobe is completely shot."

"This is just quid pro quo," Sherlock interjected, "in return for letting me use the functional part of her brain as a repository for all the extraneous information that I have to delete to make room for important things."

Dannie smiled wryly. "I'm not really that useful to him. He just doesn't like admitting that he has friends. It humanizes him too much."

Sherlock could still feel John's eyes on him. What was with this kid? It was as if some unseen force was causing the boy to gravitate toward him, some magnetic field. No one was ever drawn to Sherlock like that.

"Would you two have room for one more in your little study group?" John asked. "The midterm for English is coming up, and Mrs. Turner still hasn't told us which chapters it's going to cover."

"It'll most likely be cumulative," Sherlock said dryly.

Dannie reached into her messenger bag for an index card and wrote the back. "Here's Sherlock's phone number," she said, handing it to John. Then she got a glare from Sherlock, "What? I don't have a phone." Dannie turned back to John. "Maybe if we put our heads together we could match about a fourth of his brain power."

John chucked. "I doubt it." He pulled out a notebook and tore out a piece of paper to write his number down for them. "Text me anytime you two are planning to get together to study. Or if you just want to hang out. Whatever… just let me know."

Dannie thwacked Sherlock lightly on the arm this time, and he complied by holding out his hand while still writing with the other. John delicately placed the paper in the other boy's hand and felt a slight jolt in his stomach when his fingertips brushed the soft skin of Sherlock's palm. Then silently, and a bit reluctantly, he got up leave. "Nice to meet you Dannie," he said politely before turning to walk back inside.

Sherlock looked up and kept his eyes on John for the longest period of time yet as the boy retreated to the warm interiors of the school. Then he glanced back at Dannie. "Don't get any ideas," he said gruffly.

Dannie shrugged innocently. "Ideas about what?"

"You've been waiting for something like this for a while now, but it's not going to happen. He's just a jock asking a geek for academic assistance. That's all he's interested in. He's not interested in me."

"Come on, you know that isn't true. Besides, he's top of his class." She looked at him sideways. "Well, maybe not the top, but he's up there, and he can get along fine without our help. Honestly, I think he likes you."

"Why? Why would he?"

"You're special," Dannie said simply. "Unfortunately, it takes a special person to see that."


	3. Chapter 3

With nightfall came the silence, terrible silence that awoke the darkest corners of Sherlock's mind. He sat alone in his room trying to control the chaos in his head. It had been a little over a year now since the ordeal ended, but he was still haunted by it every night. The rumpled bed sheets under his fingers felt as soft as the rumpled bed sheets he had laid on facedown, a strong hand on the back of his head pressing his face into the pillow as he struggled to breathe, fighting against the handcuffs shackling his wrists to the bed. Everything was rough hands and cigarette smoke and pain and terror.

A cool breeze drifted in from the open window, stirring him from his waking nightmare if only for just a moment. He climbed out onto the roof and stepped onto the ledge. Partly out of habit, he stretched out his arms and took a deep breath. He felt the push tonight, the great ball of tension in his chest goading him forward, daring him to take the leap. Still, something was holding him back. He thought about it for a minute, but he couldn't figure out what it was.

When Sherlock clambered back inside, his heart was still hammering against his ribs. He felt the room spinning, and he needed to make it stop. Sherlock reached into a drawer in his desk and pulled out a razor. The clean, sharp metal glinted in the lamplight.

The chemistry was simple enough. As he pushed the corner of blade against his skin and pressed down, he felt a rush of endorphins, endogenous morphine, not quite as powerful as the drugs that he used to inject into his arm, but enough to give him a sense of calm. Each stroke of the razor drew blood, and he indulged in his vice as much as he could without going too deep, meaning not as much as he wanted to. After making four cuts, he put the blade away, and he did so just in time.

Sherlock heard footsteps in the hallway and managed to pull his sleeve back up right before the door opened and Mycroft stepped inside.

"Do you not understand the concept of knocking?" Sherlock asked irritably.

"Nice to see you again too, little brother," Mycroft responded, leaning his black umbrella against the wall. "I'll be staying for a few weeks while Mummy and Daddy are away."

"For goodness sake, I'm seventeen years old. I don't need a babysitter."

"You are aware by now that I always keep an eye on you, even when I'm not home."

"Yes, it's rather annoying. Plus it seems a bit unnecessary in addition to forcing me to take a drug test every six weeks."

"I wouldn't have to do either of those things if you would simply talk me, give me some insight about what's going on with you. I need to know that you're not a danger to yourself."

"I'm fine," Sherlock spat. He gripped the hem of his sleeve and hoped that the blood spilling from his arm wouldn't drip through the material of his shirt and soak into the sheets.

Mycroft studied him silently for a moment. "Have the nightmares stopped?'

Sherlock didn't answer. Even if he said yes, it was unlikely that Mycroft would believe him. "You had no right finding out about it in the first place."

"It would have been difficult to remain ignorant about what happened to you once the police got involved. Of course after they screwed up and let the man get away I had to take matters into my own hands."

"You could have handed him back over to the police. You didn't have to have him killed." There were still so many things that Mycroft didn't know. The man whose execution he'd ordered wasn't the only one who had hurt Sherlock, and he wasn't the one Sherlock wanted dead.

"You underestimate, little brother, how dangerous I can be when someone threatens your safety."

Sherlock's heart was pounding again, and he would need to make another cut if this conversation didn't end soon. "I'm tired. You can leave my room now. I don't have any drugs stashed under my bed."

"Yes, I checked before you got home from school," Mycroft said, smiling ruefully. He turned to go. "Goodnight, Sherlock. Sleep soundly."

After the door closed shut, Sherlock ran to the door and turned the lock, angry with himself for not remembering to lock it before. He threw himself down on the bed and pulled down his sleeve to admire his handiwork. The blood had smeared and coagulated, but he could still make out the straight lines of severed flesh, each gaping open slightly. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, but they soon snapped open again.

Lying on his back, Sherlock stared up at the ceiling and blinked for a few minutes. For some reason the image of John Watson's face had flickered before his eyes, and now he couldn't make it go away. He saw John standing next to him on the roof asking him to step down from the ledge.

 _I don't get it_ , Sherlock thought to himself as he turned off the light and crawled underneath the covers. _Why would he care?_

* * *

John got to see where Dannie lived after he finally received a text from Sherlock about the next study session. The three of them took the underground from Paddington Station and got off at Baker Street. Then they stopped in front of a door with silver letters above the doorknocker spelling out 221B.

A short woman with graying Auburn hair answered the door. "Dannie, you've brought another friend home," she said brightly, ushering them inside. "Who's this, then?"

John stepped forward and introduced himself with a firm handshake. No sooner had the woman let go of John's hand, though, that she took hold of Sherlock's arm and turned him to face her.

"Goodness dear, you look even more emaciated than usual," she said, reaching up to stroke his cheek in a motherly sort of way. "If you're hungry, I have some tea and biscuits in the kitchen."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, but I don't eat when I'm working," Sherlock replied. "Digestion slows me down."

"Well you'll have a bite to eat before you leave, and I don't want to hear any arguments from you about it," she called after him as Sherlock dashed up the stairs to the flat on the second floor. Mrs. Hudson shook her head and turned back to John, "What about you, dear? Feeling peckish at all?"

"Not at the moment, but thank you," John answered politely. "We'll be upstairs then, I suppose."

"Make yourselves at home."

The flat on the second floor was charming and cozy, or at least the sitting room was. The kitchen looked like some kind of laboratory with all the instruments and glassware and chemicals on the table. Many questions rose in John's mind, but the first to come out of his mouth was, "Does someone live here?"

"No," Sherlock answered. "Mrs. Hudson is still looking for a tenant, but for now I'm paying her fifty quid a month so that I can keep all my forensic equipment here. My parents won't allow any of it in the house, especially not the body parts that I borrow from the morgue. Well, I don't think Mrs. Hudson knows yet about the bag of human thumbs in the fridge."

Dannie rolled her eyes. "I have the whole basement apartment to myself. Mrs. Hudson gave up on renting it out a long time ago. When you run out of room up here, though, I'm not letting you use my kitchen for storage space."

"There's some nice furniture up here at least," John said, taking a seat on the sofa. "I could imagine living in this flat."

Reviewing for the exam took all of about twenty minutes, or in Sherlock's case, five minutes. Dannie had written up a very detailed study guide, and all Sherlock had to do was scan it briefly. John and Dannie sat on the sofa and continued to quiz each other as Sherlock retreated to the corner and picked up his violin.

"Do you mind if I play for a bit?" Sherlock asked them. "It helps me think."

"That's fine," John answered. "Go right ahead."

He couldn't help but be a bit distracted by the sound of Sherlock's astonishingly skillful hands coaxing music from the violin's strings. John found himself thinking about Sherlock's hands, the pale, translucent skin stretched over bone and the long, slender fingers, his thumbs still hooked through the holes in the hems of his sleeves. John wondered how hands so skeletal could be so beautiful. He also wondered what it would feel like to hold one of those hands in his own.

John realized suddenly that Dannie was watching him watch Sherlock. "He's really good, isn't he?" she whispered.

John cleared his throat and turned back to the study guide. "Alright, what number are we on now?" When she didn't respond, John looked up. "Dannie?"

The girl was sitting up now and staring straight ahead with dilated eyes. Her breathing had become shallow, and she was gripping the arm of the sofa so hard that her knuckles had turned white. John said her name again, and she turned slowly to him and whispered, "It's happening."

"Sherlock. Sherlock!" John called urgently. The sound of the violin stopped. "Something's wrong."

"Oh God, here we go again," Sherlock muttered, rushing over to the sofa.

"What is it? What's happening?" John asked, slightly panicked.

"She's having a seizure." Sherlock unhooked his left thumb from the hem and tugged down the sleeve enough to expose his palm. "Lean back," he instructed Dannie, laying the hand on her forehead. "Try to relax."

"God, your hands are cold," she said, gasping for breath.

John had witnessed someone having a grand-mal seizure before, but he was unfamiliar with this kind of epilepsy. "What do we do?"

"There's nothing we can do except wait for it to stop," Sherlock said softly. "It'll be over in a few minutes."

Dannie gripped the cushions and uttered expletives under her breath. "Fuck. Why… why do I smell blood? Why do I always… smell blood when this happens?" she murmured faintly between labored breaths.

"It's an olfactory hallucination," Sherlock explained. "There's a direct link from the olfactory bulbs in the frontal lobe to the hippocampus in the temporal lobe where memories are stored."

"I know. Shut up," Dannie muttered, her whole body tensing. "Dammit."

Sherlock stayed at arm's length from her. He wasn't the type to offer a hug, and he knew Dannie was often avoidant of physical contact. He felt along the crevice of his own neck for the carotid artery and found his pulse. Then he took Dannie's hand and pressed the tips of her fingers there. "Just keep breathing and focus on the rhythm," he said gently.

After another minute Dannie began to relax. Sherlock let go of her hand, but after regaining her senses, she took hold of Sherlock wrist and threaded his thumb back through the hole in his sleeve. Sherlock glanced away guiltily as she shot him a dark look.

"Are you okay now?" John asked apprehensively.

Dannie sat up. "Yeah, I'm fine, sorry about that."

"I'll go ask Mrs. Hudson to make you a cup of tea," Sherlock said, turning to go downstairs. "Do want anything John?"

Dannie interjected, "Just have her send up the whole tray. You need a bit of nourishment yourself. You're looking a bit peaky."

John exhaled deeply when Sherlock left the room. "You sure you're alright?"

Dannie nodded. "I can still smell the scent of hemoglobin, but it'll go away after a while."

"Jesus. What are these things like?"

"I just see a lot of bright light and I feel like I've fallen into a dream. For some reason that causes me to panic a bit. I know it looks like I'm having a panic attack, and that's how it feels, but there's no external stimuli that causes it, just abnormal electrical activity in my right temporal lobe. Sometimes anxiety can make it act up a bit, but usually it just happens out of the blue."

John massaged his eyelids. "How often does it happen?"

Dannie smirked. "You sound like a doctor already. Sherlock said that's what you want to be when you grow up."

John chuckled. "I never told him that." Of course he didn't have to. Sherlock just knew these things.

"He thinks you have all the makings of a fine doctor already, and so do I. That's why I figured you'd be good for him. He needs someone like you."

"He needs…a doctor?"

"I don't know if you've noticed by now, but he's not well."


	4. Chapter 4

John was finding it difficult to try to approach Sherlock at school with all his rugby teammates constantly watching him. The budding relationship between the two of them had become a dark and dangerous secret. His feelings for Sherlock were beginning to intensify, and if he was afraid of other people noticing this, that was nothing compared to his fear of Sherlock taking notice of it. Strangely enough, though, it seemed to be the one thing that kid was oblivious to.

After the final bell rang on Friday, John gathered his books at his locker and made his way stealthily to the side entrance. Maybe if he snuck out unnoticed he could catch up with Sherlock on the walk home.

This plan didn't work out, however. As soon as he stepped through the doors onto the sidewalk, he heard voices coming from the courtyard.

"You want to talk shit now, freak?" Anderson was shouting. "Go on, say something clever."

Adrenaline coursed through John's veins as he ran towards the voices and peered around the corner. Tristan and Sebastian were standing on either side of Anderson who had Sherlock pinned up against the wall. Sherlock's face was slack, his eyes vacant, and he didn't move or make a sound when Anderson grabbed him by the collar and shoved him hard, making the back of head smack against wall, or when Anderson punched him in the stomach.

"Oi! Leave him alone!" John yelled, rushing forward and pulling Anderson off of Sherlock. Anderson tried to push him away, but John stood his ground.

Tristan reached out and put an arm between them as John stared daggers at Anderson. "What's your problem, mate?"

"Yeah," Anderson taunted. "Why are you sticking up for this faggot?"

John swatted Tristan's arm away and spat at Anderson, "I've had enough of your narrow-minded, homophobic bullshit." He put up his fists. "Beating up a kid who's not fighting back doesn't make you a tough guy. You want a real fight? Have a go at me."

Still pressed up against the wall, Sherlock came out of his trance and saw John being ganged up on by the other three boys. Even though John was outnumbered and a head shorter than the rest, he fought with the skill and ferocity of someone who had been trained in hand-to-hand combat. He stayed low, using his small stature to his advantage as he threw hard, strategically targeted punches. It seemed that he might actually have a good chance of fighting them off, but not without incurring a few injuries, and Sherlock didn't want that to happen.

He reached into his pocket and unsheathed his razor from the piece of paper he had wrapped it in. Walking calmly into the scuffle, he grabbed a hold of Anderson and held the edge of the blade against the bridge of the other boy's nose.

"You know, Anderson, I'm currently working on an experiment with human eyeballs," Sherlock breathed menacingly. "Normally I borrow specimens from the morgue, but it would save me time to just gouge out one of yours."

Anderson wrenched himself out of Sherlock's grasp, his eyes wide with terror. "My God, you're a bloody psychopath!" He turned on his heels and ran, the other two boys following in earnest.

When Sherlock turned to see if John was alright, he found him doubled over in laughter. "That was brilliant!" John wheezed, holding a stich in his side. "Did you see Anderson's face? I think he pissed himself."

Sherlock couldn't help it. He laughed too.

Still giggling uncontrollably, the pair of them followed the sidewalk up to the road near the front entrance of the school. It was a long time before their laughter subsided, and by then they were beginning to draw near Sherlock's house. Sherlock stopped for a second to catch his breath and looked John up and down.

"Are you okay?" Sherlock asked, searching John's face and neck for bruises and scrapes.

"I'm fine," John reassured him.

Sherlock rubbed the back of his neck nervously. "What you did back there, that was, um… good."

"A simple thank you would suffice," John said teasingly.

"Right, yes, thank you."

"You're very welcome."

A silence fell between them. It seemed they had stepped into new territory, and there would be no turning back now. What transpired in the last ten minutes had been too world changing, too permanent.

John bit his lip and spoke up. "I was looking for you after school today because I wanted to show you something. Do you have Netflix?"

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "Yes. What did you want to show me?"

"Well, there's this TV program I started watching recently called House MD, and the main character reminded me of you."

"The main character of a medical show reminded you of me?"

"Well, yeah, because he's a genius, and he solves medical cases by making deductions sort of like you do. Plus he tends to rub people the wrong way," John added with a grin.

Sherlock fought the urge to grin back. "Well, my place is right up ahead if you want to come inside."

The entrance hall of the Holmes estate had high vaulted ceilings with a glittering chandelier hanging above the staircase. Sherlock took John's coat for him and hung it on the tall mahogany rack by the door as John took a look around.

"Are your parents home?" John asked.

"No. They're off on a cruise around the Mediterranean or something. The sitting room is that way," he said, pointing John in the right direction.

John took a seat on the white linen sofa in the middle of the room facing the immense flat screen television mounted to the wall. Sherlock sat down in the adjacent armchair and massaged his ribs.

"You okay, mate?" John asked, studying him with concern.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Sherlock said, waving a hand dismissively. "Anderson didn't hit me very hard. I think he was a little put off by me going into a catatonic state."

John considered this a moment. "Um… about that. What was going on? You looked dead on your feet."

"It was just a survival mechanism," Sherlock muttered. "The acute stress response is commonly referred to as the 'fight or flight' response, but the full term is actually, 'fight, flight, freeze, or faint.' Of course people usually attempt fighting or fleeing even when they know their attacker is faster and stronger than them. If you're trapped, though, sometimes the only option is to… play dead."

It occurred to John that Sherlock was now talking more to himself than to him. A dark look had come over the scrawny boy's handsome face. Suddenly Sherlock stood up and walked briskly towards the hallway.

"You sure you're alright?" John asked.

"Yes, fine. Of course I'm fine," Sherlock muttered. It may have been John's imagination, but it sounded to him like Sherlock's respiratory rate had quickened. "Just going to the kitchen to… check on something."

In the safety of the kitchen Sherlock gripped the edges of the sink and tried to slow his breathing. A flashbulb memory had flickered in his mind back in the sitting room and now his autonomic nervous system was responding with an unnecessary dose of adrenaline. He felt a strange tingling sensation in his arm as if all the tension in his body had transferred there awaiting release. Hands shaking, he fumbled in his pocket for his razor blade, but then he thought better of it. He couldn't do this with John in the next room. There wouldn't be time to wait for the bleeding to stop. Searching frantically for an alternative, Sherlock opened a small cabinet high above the oven and rummaged through his parents' impressive collection of prescription pills until he found what he was looking for, the bottle of Valium. He swallowed four pills and chased them down with a sip of brandy from his parents' liquor cabinet to speed up and amplify the effects.

Relief came quickly, and Sherlock let out a deep sigh as his heart rate slowed and the tingling sensation in his arm stopped. The number of pills he had taken would be enough to knock out most people in a matter of minutes, but due to his history of drug use, Sherlock was very resilient. Remembering that John was still waiting for him in the sitting room, he called down the hallway, "Did you want anything to drink, John? Some water? Tea? Brandy?"

He heard John chuckle in the distance. "No thanks. There's a cold water bottle in my rucksack. I've got the show paused… anytime you're ready." There was still an edge of concern in his voice.

Feeling a bit light-headed, Sherlock returned to the sitting room and slumped down on the sofa beside John much closer than the other boy had expected. After a sideways glance at him, John cleared his throat and aimed the remote at the telly to press play. "I hope you enjoy this. It's one of my favorites."

Sherlock leaned his head back and watched the TV screen with his eyelids half closed. He had enough consciousness left to pay attention to the first thirty minutes of the show, but then his eyes fluttered shut completely.

John spoke up, though he sounded far away, "Please tell me this isn't putting you to sleep."

Sherlock roused at his voice and blinked. "No, it's good. I'm enjoying it," he said, his speech slightly slurred. "That House bloke should be a detective, though. A doctor would never get away with ignoring his patients for that length of time."

"Yeah," John said, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye. "You're probably right."

"Wilson is well-suited for his job, though. He reminds me of you." Sherlock hunched over suddenly and slid his hands over his face. John turned all the way towards him.

"God, Sherlock, are you feeling alright?" John asked. "You look like you're about to pass out." Sherlock made a move as if he was trying to get to his feet, then he turned and kneeled up against the back of the sofa and clung onto the cushions. "Sherlock, what are you doing?"

Sherlock slumped over sideways, and John grabbed a hold of him and pulled him close, cradling Sherlock's head and shoulders as the boy collapsed into his lap. "Sherlock, talk to me. What's happening? Did you take something?" John asked, cupping the side of Sherlock's face with one hand.

"It was… just a couple of Valium. I'll be fine," Sherlock mumbled. He shuddered and looked up at John. "Your eyes are fascinating. They're blue with a ring of hazel around the middle. Partial heterochromia." His eyes closed as his breathing began to slow and his whole body went limp.

Panic rising in his chest, John moved his hand to Sherlock's neck and found the carotid artery. He monitored his pulse for a few minutes, praying for it to remain steady. The light of the side table lamp cast shadows in the valleys of Sherlock's high cheekbones and the triangular dip at the crest of his lips. With an uncomfortable swoop in his stomach, John realized that he was feeling an impulse to take Sherlock's face in his hands and kiss him. It would be improper to do that while Sherlock was unconscious.

Deciding to monitor the radial pulse instead, John reached for Sherlock's wrist and pulled down his sleeve. What he saw there made his heart drop into his stomach.

"Oh God. Oh my God."

A patchwork of deep red lines stood out against the porcelain skin. John pushed the sleeve down more and found the scars continued down to the crook of Sherlock's elbow, where the cuts met collapsed veins and faded needle marks.

"Jesus, Sherlock. Fuck," John cried aloud, knowing that the unconscious boy in his lap couldn't hear him. "Why would you do this to yourself?"

Unable to stand the sight anymore, he tugged Sherlock's sleeve back up to cover the scars. John returned his hand to the carotid artery and checked Sherlock's pulse again. Before he could stop himself, he kissed the boy's cheekbones, his eyelids, his nose, his temple. Then he laid his forehead against Sherlock's and rocked back and forth a bit.

In his anguish, John didn't hear the front door creak open. It wasn't until the sound of someone clearing their throat reached him that he looked up. A tall man stood in the living room leaning against his umbrella. He was staring at John with raised eyebrows.

"Good evening," the man said in a casual tone.

John sat up and hugged Sherlock's lifeless form closer to his chest. "Hi. Um, who are you?"

"Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Sherlock's older brother, Mycroft. I know who you are. I've been keeping my eye on both of you."

A bit unnerved, John looked down at the younger brother and checked to make sure he was still breathing. "I think he'll be alright. He just took something that knocked him out."

"Ah, yes, the Valium," Mycroft said softly. "I've repeatedly stressed to our parents the importance of keeping prescription drugs out of reach from their ex-addict son, but of course they're hardly ever home to monitor the situation. Anyways, pills were never Sherlock's drug of choice."

John furrowed his brow at this, wondering what type of drug Mycroft was talking about. "Right, so I better be going."

"I can give you a lift home. My car is parked outside."

"Thank you, but I think I'll manage."

"I was trying to be polite by making it sound like an offer rather than a command. Either way, you will be taken home in my car. I have something to discuss with you."

It was a long ride home sitting in the back of the black Mercedes. John stared out the window and watched the streetlamps pass by as he wondered what Mycroft wanted to discuss with him. Mycroft didn't say anything, though until the car pulled up in front of John's house.

"You two have become rather close it seems, you and Sherlock," Mycroft said quietly. He stayed facing forward in the front seat. "Been spending a lot of time together."

"Yes. Is that a problem?"

"No, it's fine. It's positively heartwarming," Mycroft said airily. "I just thought I should give you fair warning."

"Warning?" John repeated.

"Yes. I'm not entirely sure about the nature of your relationship, but I feel obligated to inform you that I had Sherlock's last boyfriend executed."

John had no idea how to respond to that. A part of him hoped that Mycroft was making a joke, but he didn't seem the type. "Why? What happened?"

"I don't think it's my place to tell you that."

"Well it's probably not my place to hear it, but tell me anyways."

The man sighed wearily. "Sherlock ran away from home when he was fifteen and went to live with a student at uni. He got Sherlock into drugs, and… well," Mycroft swallowed. "When the police found Sherlock at the man's flat, he was in rather bad shape."

John began to feel sick. "What did he do to him?"

"All I can tell you is that when my men finally found the bastard, I came very close to strangling him with my bare hands. I gave the order, though, to have him killed slowly and painfully." Mycroft turned around to face him now. "The point I'm trying to make is that there is nothing, absolutely nothing I wouldn't do to protect my little brother."

John exhaled slowly, still trying to process this information. Finally he said, "I suppose I don't have any reason to be afraid of you, then."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because there's nothing I wouldn't do to protect him either."


	5. Chapter 5

Dannie took notice of the way John was watching Sherlock as they sat in the courtyard during lunchtime. The rest of the school had a clear view through the cafeteria window of the three of them sitting together, but John didn't care. All he could think about was his conversation with Mycroft and the patchwork of scars hidden under Sherlock's sleeve.

Struck by sudden boredom, Sherlock had gotten up and taken out his magnifying glass to inspect a deceased bumblebee lying on a nearby tree stump. That's when Dannie took the opportunity to switch over to John's side of the long granite table.

"You've seen his arm then?" she said casually.

John furrowed his brow. "You know about that?"

"Well, yeah. He never talks to me about it, but I know a fellow cutter when I see one." Dannie rolled back her sleeve and showed John her forearm, which was heavily lined with faded pinkish-purple scars.

"Oh God," John muttered, leaning back and closing his eyes.

"Relax, I haven't done it for six months." Dannie glanced across the courtyard at Sherlock. "Not sure how he's doing, though."

John shook his head solemnly. "Not good."

"I figured not." Dannie sighed. "If there's anything you want to know about this though," she said rolling her sleeve back up, "you can ask me."

He thought for a minute, and then asked, "What can I do to help him?"

"First of all, don't try to deprive him of sharp objects. That won't stop him. If he really wants to do it, he'll use anything he can find."

"Then how-?"

"Second of all, you need to understand how good this feels. Honestly, I miss it."

John raised an eyebrow. "Doesn't it hurt?"

"Not really. The endorphins your body produces when you're injured are designed to relieve pain. Plus, during an acute stress response your body has diminished pain perception already. All you're left with is the neurological equivalent of a friend wrapping their arms around you and whispering in your ear, 'It's okay. Everything's going to be okay.'"

"I suppose the real thing wouldn't comfort Sherlock all that much."

"No, it wouldn't." Dannie muttered. "That's one of the most dangerous things about doing something like this to yourself. It makes you want to push away people who care about you, because it hurts more when the evidence of your pain causes them pain."

"I just want to make it stop."

"The pain or what he does for it?"

"Just… all of it."

Dannie smiled at him sadly. "Ultimately whether or not he keeps doing this is entirely in his control. It just depends on whether or not he wants to. All you can do is try to help him not want to."

"How do I do that?"

"I wish I could tell you, but I don't know."

* * *

The University of Westminster was a few blocks away from Baker Street. Sherlock seemed to be inexplicably familiar with the campus and was able to direct John and Dannie straight to the library. The librarian eyed them suspiciously as they sat down to work on a research project for history class that was due next week. Sherlock and John browsed through large dusty volumes and Dannie took down notes, but soon enough Sherlock was bored.

"Don't we have something due in chemistry?" Sherlock groaned. "I can't look at these history books anymore."

"Not for a while," Dannie answered. "Anyways, your mind palace already contains everything there is to know about chemistry." She peered over at John's watch to check the time. "I hate to leave you two, but I've got to go help Mrs. Hudson with dinner."

"Wait," John said. "We need your left temporal lobe." He knew that Dannie had a purpose for leaving them alone together, but John was feeling a bit nervous about that now.

"I can leave my notebook with you, but I don't think you'll get much else done now that Sherlock's mind has run off the rails." She shot a glance at Sherlock, who was now searching though the encyclopedia for an entry on the element promethium. "Don't stay too long," Dannie said before departing. "It looks like it's going to rain soon."

Nebulous storm clouds were forming in the sky outside the window. Only the dim light of small table lamps illuminated the room. John looked up at Sherlock and watched as the boy's long finger traced over lines of black ink, his nose inches from the page. Finally John spoke up. "Anderson and the others have been leaving me alone since the… incident."

Sherlock was half-concentrating on the book, so it only took about three minutes for John's words to register in his overactive mind. "Oh," Sherlock said, straightening in his chair to look at him. "That's a good thing, right?"

"Definitely," John said, smiling. "I never really enjoyed their company much anyways. I did enjoy playing rugby though, with all the running and the tackling and the conflict, but now I'm thinking about quitting the team."

"Sorry about that," Sherlock mumbled.

"It's not your fault. It was my choice to pick a fight with them. Anyways, if I'm applying to university for pre-med, I'd be better off with an academic scholarship than an athletic one."

"I'm sure you'll manage that just fine."

"Speaking of college applications, I figured someone like you would be attending uni by now."

Sherlock sighed. "My parents considered letting me go early. They let Mycroft go to uni when he was thirteen, but after seeing how he turned out they figured that was a mistake, so they're having me take the slow path and stay at the same grade level as my peers. A lot of good that will do."

Feeling a bit agitated, Sherlock got up and traveled back into the maze of bookshelves. He thumbed over the spine of a familiar text and pulled it from the shelf. On the wooden panel behind it there was a smiley face drawn on with a sharpie. Sherlock remembered the thick, calloused fingers of the hand that had drawn it there. He could almost feel those fingers closing around his wrist. Wait, not almost, he did feel them. It wasn't his imagination.

A soft, high voice breathed in his ear, "Hello, darling. Miss me?"

Sherlock suppressed a shudder and slowly turned to face his aggressor. He tried to tug his arm away, but the man kept a firm grip.

"Come on, love. There's no need to be so coy with me," the man whispered. "I've waited a long time for you to step back into my web."

Staring into the cold, dark eyes of Jim Moriarty, Sherlock wondered how he had ever let this foul creature touch him.

The thing about Jim was that he loved to take beautiful, rare, precious things and slowly break them apart. He was all too eager to take fifteen-year-old Sherlock under his wing the day he found the boy wandering the halls of Westminster looking for a distraction. Jim thoroughly enjoyed watching that brilliant mind go blank, whether it was when he had Sherlock strung out on heroin or when Jim pinned the boy to the mattress and fucked him senseless. For the first two months Sherlock let himself believe that this was a normal relationship. He was too young and naïve to understand what was being done to him. Soon enough, though, Jim became bored and decided to change up the game. Then Sherlock understood.

Jim tugged at the hem of Sherlock's sleeve. "Tell me, Sherlock, who's supplying drugs for you now?" He pushed the sleeve back and tisked at the sight he found there. "Oh Sherlock, you're too pretty to carve yourself up like this. Then again, I'm sure you'd still fetch the same price."

"Still in the human trafficking business, then?" Sherlock said, leaning back against the bookshelf as far away from the man as he could manage.

"Of course not, dear. You know you're the only little fucktoy I ever rented out," Jim said, stroking the side of Sherlock's face with one calloused finger. "It's a shame I took so little time to play with you myself, but I did enjoy to watch." His finger trailed down Sherlock's neck to his collarbone. "Victor got a little carried away, though."

"You know what my brother did to Victor. Imagine what would happen if I told him about you."

"Oh I'm not worried about that. You're too secretive," he said, stepping away and tugging Sherlock's sleeve back up. "I've been keeping a safe distance for now, Sherlock, but I figured I'd stop by and give you this friendly little reminder: you are _mine_."

Jim gripped the bookshelf and thrust his hips forward against Sherlock's leg. Sherlock could smell the cigarette smoke on Jim's breath as the man leaned closer and ran his tongue along Sherlock's closed mouth. Then with one last sinister smirk, Jim slipped away into the shadows.

It took a moment for Sherlock to come back up to breathe. He felt as if he'd spent the last few minutes underwater and had just now resurfaced, shaking and gasping. Panic rose in his chest, a delayed reaction. Sherlock's fingers trembled as he reached into his pocket for his razor. Throwing aside caution, he pressed the blade down hard and made one quick stroke over the M-shaped vein formation on his wrist. The blood welled up, large drops spilling over and trailing down to his hand. Sherlock made a fist and let the blood spread over his palm.

Struck by a strange, morbid idea, Sherlock removed a few more books with his other hand and pressed the bloodstained one against the smiley face drawn onto the wood panel. He left the crimson handprint in plain view and returned to the table, stopping along the way to grab a Kleenex and dab the blood off of his hand.

It was very fortunate that John had already gathered his books and returned them to his rucksack, because by the time Sherlock reached the table, the librarian was on her feet shouting, "Oi! What have you done to my bloody bookshelves?"

Sherlock smirked at her choice of words. "Come on, John," Sherlock said quietly but urgently. "Grab your things and run."

John simply sat there with his mouth agape. "Why? What did you do?"

"Quickly, John," Sherlock hissed as he dashed towards the exit. He heard John's panicked footsteps following him as the librarian squawked, "Stop them! Stop those two!"

Sherlock and John sprinted down the main hallway towards the front entrance. A few paces away, John saw a security guard run up behind Sherlock and come dangerously close to grabbing him. John veered right and threw his left shoulder against the man, knocking him to the ground as Sherlock dashed out the door.

"Sorry," John muttered quickly to the security guard on the floor as he flew after Sherlock to try to catch up with him. The two boys didn't stop running until they reached the front steps of 221B Baker Street, where downpour of rain had already begun.

John clung to the railing and gasped for breath. "That was ridiculous," he said, grinning. "That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done." He looked up at Sherlock, and his smile faded a bit. "What did you do to the bookshelf?"

"Nothing serious," Sherlock said, tilting his face up towards the rain, still high from the slight morphine buzz. "I just left a little… signature."

John chuckled. "That is so you."

"You have no idea," Sherlock muttered under his breath. The two of them were starting to get soaked, and so he took out his copy of the key and opened the front door. "Come on, get inside. I have a spare change of clothes upstairs."

The moment he entered the flat, Sherlock crossed the sitting room quickly and disappeared into the bedroom. John tried to follow but was met with a door slammed in his face. "Sherlock, are you okay?"

"Fine," Sherlock answered through the closed door. He cracked it open briefly to toss out a dark blue long-sleeved t-shirt for John to change into. John studied it, quite sure that any shirt that fit Sherlock's rail-thin body wouldn't fit him. "Sorry about the holes in the sleeves," Sherlock said, pushing the door closed again and locking it.

"Sherlock, you can change out here. There's no need to be so modest-" John stopped himself, baffled by his own stupidity. Of course Sherlock wouldn't want to take his shirt off in front of him. Taking a deep breath, John said, "Sherlock, it's okay."

"What is?" Sherlock was holding a towel against the fresh cut. He had to wait for the bleeding to stop before putting on the white button-down shirt he had pulled from the closet.

"I know about your arm." Sherlock's stomach turned cold at these words. "I'm sorry, but I got a look at it when you were passed out and I was trying to check your pulse." John jostled the door handle. "Just, please, let me in. I need to know you're alright."

Sherlock backed away from the door as he heard a hairpin scratch around the inside of the doorknob and the lock click open. John stepped inside and caught a glimpse of the bloodstained towel Sherlock was holding against his arm.

"Oh fuck," John whispered. He nudged the towel away and took hold of Sherlock's wrist to get a good look at it. Blood was still welling up from the wound. "Jesus, Sherlock. I think you might need stiches."

"I'll be fine," Sherlock muttered. "I've made deeper cuts than this."

John guided Sherlock's other hand to press the towel back over the cut and held it there firmly. "Can you tell me why you did this?"

"I don't want to bore you with the details."

"Whatever it was must have been pretty serious." Realizing that he was making Sherlock feel cornered, John let go and put up his hands. "Look, I understand if you don't feel like talking about it, but I want you to know that… if you ever… you can always tell me if something's bothering you."

"Well, right now you are," Sherlock said shortly. He regretted saying it as soon as the words left his mouth.

"Right then. Okay," John said in a wounded voice. "I'll just leave you alone."

Feeling a bit defeated, John picked up his rucksack from the chair in the sitting room and marched quickly down the stairs. He made it to the front step outside before he heard Sherlock calling him back.

"John, wait!"

Ignoring him, John continued down the steps and onto the sidewalk. Sherlock followed, feeling a sting in his arm as the rain poured down and soaked his shirt again.

"John, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that."

"It's fine Sherlock," John said, turning towards him. "You don't have to spare my feelings."

"I just… you have to understand," he swallowed. "This hurts."

"Yeah, I bet it does."

Sherlock shook his head. "No, John. This," he held out his arm, "this doesn't hurt. It's just… the way you're looking at me now…"

"What?"

"I can't… I can't stand it when you look at me like that. Like you… care or something."

John smiled sadly. "Why does that bother you?"

"I don't know."

The magnetic field was drawing John in again. "If you want, I can do my best to hide it," he said, stepping closer until they were inches from each other. "God knows I've been trying, but the truth is I do care about you. More than you know."

Sherlock shivered as John reached up and cupped his face in both hands. The rain had chilled him to the bone, but John was radiating warmth like a sun. Sherlock found himself leaning towards him, staring into those deep blue eyes with a ring hazel around the middle. It had been so long since he'd actually wanted to be this close to another person. Not since-

Jim's face flashed before Sherlock's eyes, and he shut them tight. "Fuck," he whimpered softly, trembling head to foot.

"Shh. It's alright," John whispered, He crooked one arm gently around Sherlock's back and pulled him closer. "Look at me, Sherlock. It's okay. Everything is going to be okay."

Sherlock opened his eyes again. The corners of John's eyes were crinkled with emotion, and all the magical benevolence in the world that Sherlock didn't believe in was shining from his face. It was like daylight streaming through the windows of his mind palace, banishing the darkness and filling him with hope. Without thinking about it, Sherlock leaned down and pressed his mouth against John's slightly parted lips. John responded by making a little whining noise and opening his mouth more, his warm breath tasting of mint and tea as he kissed Sherlock back.

Entangled in Sherlock's arms, John gave him one last gentle peck on the lips before nestling his face against the boy's shoulder. "Wow," he said, heart still beating fast. "I wasn't expecting that."

Sherlock rested his chin lightly on the top of John's head. "Me neither."

They pulled apart when John heard a noise coming from inside 221B. The front door was open. Dannie and Mrs. Hudson were standing in the entranceway, both of them beaming. Dannie stretched her hands to the ceiling and shouted, "Yes! Finally!"

Mrs. Hudson shushed her and said, "Come on, let's leave them to it."

John smiled and rubbed the back of his neck nervously. He looked so bashful Sherlock wrapped his arms around him again and planted a kiss on his forehead. "Let's go back inside and see if we can warm you up."


	6. Chapter 6

It took a little practice for Sherlock to get used to holding John's hand. Initially he was nervous about participating in any PDA in the hallways at school in case John's ex-teammates took it as an excuse to attack John, but apparently they all still lived in fear that Sherlock would sneak into their bedrooms at night and gouge their eyes out, so they left John and Sherlock alone for the most part, occasionally shouting a few homophobic slurs at the couple but keeping a safe distance from them.

John hadn't realized before how many gay couples attended Paddington Academy. With all the dirty looks he and Sherlock received from students and teachers as they walked through the hallways hand in hand, it was nice to get a friendly response from someone. Other same-sex couples passing by gave them knowing glances and raised their interlocked fingers in a sign of solidarity. John always nodded back, the evidence of how proud he was to have Sherlock as his boyfriend written all over his face.

Of course, there were times that Sherlock's personality quirks drove him up the wall. He was often very distractible, but he became completely oblivious to the world around him when he was working on a case or an experiment. Also, there were moments when John couldn't tell whether Sherlock was talking to him or to thin air, but he was expected to know the difference. Still, John could never stay mad at him for very long.

"You guys are too damn cute," Dannie said as the three of them sat in the living room at Baker Street waiting for the next episode of House MD to finish loading. John and Sherlock were nestled together comfortably on the sofa. "Seriously, I'm getting chest pains from all the adorableness. I can literally feel my heart squishing itself."

John paused the show as it skipped to the next episode and inched away from Sherlock a bit. "Sorry if we're being inconsiderate."

"No, it's fine," Dannie reassured him. "It's not your fault that I've become a third wheel. I need to find myself a girlfriend."

Sherlock glanced over at her now. "A girlfriend?"

Dannie nodded. "Yeah. Of course, the only girl at school who ever makes eye contact with me is Irene Adler. Apparently she has a thing for damaged people."

John furrowed his brow. "So, you're a…"

"Homo-romantic frigid bitch," Dannie finished for him. "Anyways, Irene gets around a lot. She's probably out of my league."

"Well, you never know," Sherlock said, giving John a sideways glance. "I was quite sure that John was out of my league."

"Shut up, it was the other way around," John said grinning at him. He shook his head. "My God, everyone in my life is gay."

"Really?" Dannie asked. "Everyone?"

"Well, my older sister Harriet is. It took a while for my parents to get used to the idea. I've been trying to work up the courage to tell them that I'm bi, but I know they're still hoping that at least one of their kids is straight."

"My parents did too," Sherlock muttered. "They got over it soon enough." He reached for John's hand and interlocked their fingers. John leaned over and kissed him on the nose, though it was apparent that he was holding back.

Dannie grabbed the remote and turned the TV off. "Seeing as you guys are six episodes ahead of me, I could go back down to my basement apartment and watch on my own. Leave you to do… whatever."

"You sure?" John asked. "If you'd rather keep watching up here we can… behave."

"Oh by all means, misbehave," Dannie said on her way toward the door. Before going down the stairs, she called over her shoulder, "You two know where the bedroom is."

John leaned back against the cushions and sighed. With a quick glance towards the bedroom door, Sherlock raised his eyebrows at John and said, "Shall we?"

The room was dimly lit, and the king-sized bed with its soft white duvet cover was big and warm and inviting. Sherlock settled himself against the pillows and sighed contentedly. John hesitated by the door. He and Sherlock had never lied down on a bed together before, and just entertaining the idea felt a little overwhelming. Then Sherlock looked up at him with bright eyes and patted the adjacent empty space on the mattress, and John gave in to the gravitational pull.

The springs creaked under John's compact weight as he clambered onto the mattress. "Damn," John muttered. "We're going to have to be quiet or everyone will hear us downstairs."

A playful smile twitched in the corner of Sherlock's mouth. "You know, this bedroom is right above Mrs. Hudson's kitchen."

John flopped back against the pillows, "Oh God," he muttered.

"That's the idea," Sherlock whispered encouragingly.

John took a deep breath and said it louder and more dramatically, "Oh God. Oh God, yes."

Sherlock joined in and moaned, "Oh John." He took off his socks and shoes and stood up on the bed. John did the same, and the two of them started bouncing lightly on the mattress. They both had to fight the urge not to giggle.

"Oh God, Sherlock," John said, closing eyes. He was enjoying this a bit too much.

Sherlock smacked his hand against the wall. "Oh John, yes," he called loudly. "Don't stop. Don't stop."

They kept jumping, increasing their rhythm, until finally they heard Mrs. Hudson knocking at the ceiling below them with a broom handle. "Settle down up there. I'm not the one paying for it if you break the bedframe."

Sherlock gripped the headboard for support and doubled over to in suppressed laughter. "Sorry, Mrs. Hudson."

"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson," John echoed. "We'll try to keep it down."

A bit winded, the two boys flopped back down on the mattress. John chuckled up at the ceiling and turned to face Sherlock. The sight of his boyfriend lying there panting as if they'd actually just had sex made his chest tighten. The he felt some tightening in another region.

Sherlock grinned at him. "John, must you be so transparent?" he said softly, his breath evening out.

"What do you mean?" John asked. He shifted the lower half of his body in an attempt get more comfortable, but it didn't work.

"You can do anything you want to me, you know. I'm very compliant."

John grimaced against the pillows and sighed. "Dammit, Sherlock."

Sherlock lay still and studied him. "What, John?"

John inched forward and wrapped his arms around him, and Sherlock was taken aback by John's sudden rush of affection. "You don't have to be compliant. You don't have to do anything you're not comfortable with. Anytime you want me to slow down or stop, just tell me, okay?"

Sherlock rested his forehead against John's. "Okay," he whispered.

John kissed him slowly and tenderly, reaching up to run his fingers through those dark curls. Their bodies brushed together, and John could tell that Sherlock was hard too. He slipped a hand down over Sherlock's torso and palmed him through his jeans. "Is this okay?"

"Yeah," Sherlock panted. "Feels good."

Sherlock had been sure he could take anything. His past sexual experiences mostly involved him getting hit, choked, tied down, and fucked rough. However, the way John kissed and touched him so gently and lovingly wasn't something he was accustomed to. His conscious self was always ready to retreat from the surface and sink into nothingness so that he could feel dead. Now he felt all his senses buzzing with pleasure and warmth and life. It was at the same time wonderful and terrifying.

Sherlock closed his eyes and felt John's warm breath against his lips as the other boy's hand stroked harder and faster between his legs. John planted a line of kisses down his neck to his collarbone, licking and nipping at the taught, pale skin. Then right before John managed to slip his hand under the waistband of his jeans, Sherlock turned his head and glanced at the wall. Mind palace Jim was sitting in the corner watching, and Sherlock felt a phantom jolt of pain.

"No. NO!" Sherlock pulled away and slid off the side of the bed in his earnest to retreat. He hit the floor and scrambled back against the wall.

John peered anxiously over the side of the bed. "Sherlock, are you okay? I'm sorry, I shouldn't have-"

"No, you didn't do anything wrong," Sherlock muttered. "My mind is all fucked up. I need to think." He retreated into the closet and shut the door.

John pressed his face against the pillows and groaned. He couldn't help thinking that this was his fault, that he had been moving too fast. Guilt twisted in his stomach as he gripped the sheets. Then John heard a thudding sound and looked up at the closet door. "Sherlock, are you okay?" he asked. "What are you doing in there?"

Sherlock slammed the back of his head against the wall for the twelfth time. It was already over. There were four long cuts etched over the old scars on his forearm. His heart rate had slowed, but now that the panic was fading away, a terrible pang of guilt took its place. _Why?_ Sherlock asked himself. _Why can't I make it through one day without fucking everything up?_

John opened the closet door and found Sherlock hunched in the doorway holding his bleeding arm. Sherlock turned and pressed his face against the corner. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

John let out a long breath. He'd never get used to seeing Sherlock like this.

Without a word, he turned and walked out of the bedroom. Sherlock looked up and watched him go, wondering if he'd finally pushed John over the edge. After a few minutes, though, John came back holding a damp washcloth. "Come here," John said softly, beckoning him.

Sherlock tentatively stepped toward John and let him press the washcloth against his arm. John backed up and pulled them both back onto the bed. Sherlock lay rigid against John's torso and pressed the washcloth to his wrist as John wrapped his arms around him.

"Don't think about it," he whispered, kissing Sherlock's temple and rocking back and forth a bit. "Whatever it is, don't think about it."

Sherlock looked up at him. "You're not mad at me?"

"Well, I am a little, but I don't think shouting at you will do any good."

"It might make you feel better."

"If you haven't noticed, I'm trying to make you feel better."

Sherlock looked down at his forearm. "I basically just took a small hit of morphine. Trust me, I'm good to go."

John shut his eyes and hugged Sherlock a little tighter. "I wish you could just hold off for a minute when this happens, give me a chance to… I don't know. I just wish I knew what triggers it."

"You don't want to know what goes on inside my head."

"Not knowing scares me more. It terrifies me, Sherlock. I don't know… I don't know how long I can take this."

Sherlock pressed harder against the cuts. "Do you wish now that we hadn't started dating?"

John cupped Sherlock's chin and tilted his face toward him. "No, I don't. Besides, even if we were just friends, I'd still be spending all my time with you trying to figure out how to make your life better."

Sherlock smiled up at him. "You do make my life better."

John sighed and planted one more kiss on Sherlock's temple. Then he slipped out from underneath Sherlock and crawled to the end of the bed to pick up his rucksack. "I've got an idea," he said, rummaging through the front pocket and procuring a red Sharpie. John crawled back to Sherlock and took hold of his wrist.

There was a small strip of unmarked skin on Sherlock's wrist right below the border of his palm. John planted a small kiss there before pressing the tip of the marker against the porcelain skin and drawing a heart.

"There," John said, filling in the lines. "Now every time you're triggered, you can look down at your arm and remember that… that you have someone who cares about you and who can't stand to see you hurt."

Sherlock looked down at the anatomically incorrect image of a human heart and smiled. "You know that it'll eventually wash off."

John leaned in and kissed him on the lips this time. "Then I'll have to keep filling it back in. To keep reminding you."

As the pair of them laid back against the pillows again, Sherlock rested his forehead against John's chest and let John wrap his arms around him. For a moment John wondered if he should have said what he meant to say when he drew on the heart. What he'd meant to say was, "…you can look down at your arm and remember that I love you." It didn't feel too soon. John knew that he meant it, but he wasn't sure if Sherlock understood yet what it means to be loved.


	7. Chapter 7

After a couple of weeks, the school's rugby coach tracked John down and practically begged him to rejoin the team. John conceded, though he was apprehensive about changing in the locker room with the rest of the team before practice. There's often contention surrounding the issue of LGBT kids in locker rooms, particularly concerns about making the other team members uncomfortable. However, when John finally entered the locker room after a two-month hiatus, a few friendly faces greeted him in the doorway.

"Hey, he's back," Mike Stamford said, grinning amiably. "Where've you been Johnny?" He and Henry Knight were already at their lockers getting undressed. They didn't seem unsettled by John's presence at all.

John shrugged. "I just took some time off."

Henry tugged off his shirt and donned his uniform. "Well it's good to have you back, mate. I've been filling in for your position, but I'm rubbish at it."

Feeling a bit more relaxed, John walked over to his locker and pulled his uniform out of his rucksack. He got a few looks from his teammates as he undressed, but thankfully John was completely comfortable with his body, and so their stares didn't make him feel the least bit self-conscious.

Stripped down to his tight red pants, he heard a huff to his left and turned to see Anderson glowering at him. John smirked and said, "I don't think my boyfriend would appreciate you gawking at me."

Mike and Henry snorted as Anderson's face turned red and he stormed away angrily to finish changing on the other side of the locker room. He didn't make eye contact with John for the rest of the season.

The last rugby game of the season was a home game. The stands were packed, but the top right corner where Sherlock and Dannie were sitting was virtually empty apart from them. Still, Sherlock's mind was inundated with random sensory details from individuals in the crowd. He wanted to close his eyes and block it out, but then he might miss something important going on in the game.

Dannie pressed the left side of her face against Sherlock's shoulder and mumbled, "Too many people."

Sherlock sighed. "I know." He put an arm around her, and she curled up against his chest. "We have to endure it, though, for John's sake."

They sat huddled together like that for a bit, ignoring the few awkward glances from other members of the crowd. Sherlock needed something to keep his mind anchored in the sea of sensory data, and Dannie needed to feel hidden. It was an indirect kind of comfort they took from each other.

After a while Dannie spoke up, her voice muffled against Sherlock's chest. "John has really done a number on you."

Sherlock stayed still with the girl nestled in his arms. "What do you mean?"

"You're much more cuddly now."

"It's not like I'm going around giving out free hugs," Sherlock muttered, cringing at the idea.

"Not many people would want one if you did."

"Because I'm a sociopath?"

"No," Dannie giggled, "because getting smushed against your cold, hard, knobbly body with all your bones poking out can be a tad uncomfortable."

Sherlock smiled and loosened his grip. "Sorry about that."

"It's fine. I'm sure John doesn't mind. He's probably soft and squishy enough for the both of you."

"He has quite a bit of muscle tone, you know."

"I bet he does," Dannie said. She perked her head up for a moment and watched John dash down the field. "Look at him go."

John was on the perimeter of the action, but Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on him. He couldn't see from this distance, but he imagined that John had the same fierce, determined look on his face that he did when he was in his element, in the midst of a conflict. Suddenly the whistle blew, and everyone on the field stopped moving. Before Sherlock and Dannie could figure out what was going on, however, two figures approached them and blocked their view of the game.

"Oh sweet Jesus," Dannie muttered, clambering up behind Sherlock and burying her face against his shoulder blade.

"Calm down," Sherlock whispered. "They don't look that intimidating."

Molly Hooper and her boyfriend Tom stood awkwardly above them, staring down at the spindly girl clinging to Sherlock's shoulders like a baby koala. Sherlock looked up at them quizzically and asked, "Can I help you?"

"Um, hi," Molly said timidly. "We're friends of John's."

"Hello," Sherlock responded.

Molly bit her lip and fiddled with her braid. Then after a rather long pause, she said, "I was talking to John the other day, and well… has he mentioned anything to you about prom?"

Sherlock squinted at her in the fading afternoon light. "John is well aware that the mere phonetics of that word make me nauseous."

"Oh, um," Molly faltered. "I know proms can be a bit stuffy and pretentious and…"

"Boring?" Sherlock supplied.

"Yes, that too," Molly said, giggling nervously, "but, um, have you ever been to the Globe?"

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "The theatre or the nightclub?"

"The nightclub. Tom's cousin owns it actually," Molly explained. "Anyways, every year kids from our school sneak into the Globe on prom night and have a sort of alterna-prom. It's a much more welcoming environment."

"Meaning all the gay kids will be there," Sherlock said bluntly.

Tom nodded. "Yeah, basically," he managed to say before Molly elbowed him hard in the ribs.

"Everyone's welcome," she interjected cheerfully. "It would be really great if you and John could come."

Sherlock smirked. "Sounds lovely."

"Great," Molly said excitedly. "That's, um, really great." Tom gave her a sideways glance and started tugging her back to the second row of the bleachers where they were sitting before. "We'll be over here," she called, tugging her arm out of Tom's grasp. "I guess I'll see you later."

Dannie lifted her head and watched them go. As they returned to their seats, another face from the second row glanced up at the top of the stands. Dannie wrapped her arms around Sherlock's upper body and rested her chin on his shoulder as she willed herself to make eye contact with Irene Adler. The girl was wearing a dark green halter-top that accentuated her pale shoulders. Her blue eyes and the delicate features of her heart-shaped face gave the deceptive illusion of innocence.

Irene's mouth twisted in a quick smile before she turned to face forward again. Dannie relaxed a bit and sighed. "I don't know why she does that."

"She finds you interesting," Sherlock responded. "Irene prides herself on being able to figure out what people like, but apparently you're a bit of a challenge."

"That's because I don't like anything," Dannie muttered.

"You like her, obviously."

Dannie retracted her arms and pressed her face against his back again. "It would make my life a lot easier if my visual memory was half as good as yours. I always feel this compulsion to look at her and try to hold onto a mental image of her for more than five minutes, but she's so…" Dannie swallowed, "she's so pretty it hurts to look at her for too long."

"Have you considered telling her that?" Sherlock asked.

"God, no. What kind of response would that get me?"

"Worst-case scenario she'd just think you're adorable."

"What's the best-case scenario?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I don't know how these things are supposed to work. Me and John just sort of happened."

The game was nearly over, but the score was tied, and the opposing team was set up for a penalty goal. There was an almost unanimous intake of breath in the crowd as the player approached the tee for the kick. His foot made contact with the ball, but the well-aimed kick fell short of the goal posts. Rather than hitting the ground, however, the ball was caught in midair by none other than John Watson.

"Oh my God," Sherlock breathed. "Dannie, look," he said, nudging the girl behind him.

They both stood up as the rest of the crowd rose to their feet. Dannie stood on tiptoe and watched over Sherlock's shoulder as John sprinted down the field, darting past the opposition to the other goal post. A few came close to tackling him, but after a ninety-nine yard dash, John tumbled across the goal line and touched the ball to the ground.

The final whistle blew and the crowd practically exploded. Knowing Sherlock's reserved nature, Dannie lifted his arms for him and waved them over his head as she shouted loud celebratory nonsense in his ear. Sherlock tilted his head away and laughed, feeling his heart quicken when he saw John break apart from the flailing mosh pit of his fellow rugby players and run towards the stands. Dannie relinquished his arms and gave him a little shove, and Sherlock bounded down the steps of the bleachers with his coat flying behind him.

The instant they met at the fence, John reached over and pulled Sherlock into a fierce kiss. Sherlock ran his hands through John's sweat-mussed hair as the other boy gripped his coat collar and snogged the breath out of him.

"That was brilliant," Sherlock said, coming up for air. "You were brilliant."

John beamed at him, "I have something to ask you."

"Yes?" Sherlock had a fairly good idea of what the question would be.

"Will you go to alterna-prom with me?"

Sherlock smirked. "You know the prefix doesn't make that word any more palatable."

John shook his head in exasperation and grinned. "Cheeky git."

"Alright, if you insist. I'm sure one night of teenage clichés won't kill me," Sherlock muttered, pulling him in for another kiss.

John hummed happily against his lips. "You're looking forward to it, aren't you?"

In the process of formulating a snide remark, Sherlock glanced back at the stands and saw something unexpected. John followed his gaze and bore witness to the event as well. "Wow," he whispered, "would you look at that."

At the top right corner of the bleachers Irene and Dannie were sitting in close proximity. Neither seemed to be saying much, but when Irene brought up a hand to Dannie's temple and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, Dannie didn't flinch. She did, however, notice Sherlock and John watching the interaction from the field. They both gave her a thumbs-up.

* * *

The sun was beginning to set by the time one of Mycroft's black Mercedes dropped Sherlock and John off at the Holmes residence. John headed straight for the kitchen. "Anything in?" he asked, opening the refrigerator. "I'm starving."

"There's a sandwich on the bottom shelf that's been there for less than thirty-six hours," Sherlock answered from the table. "Mycroft has a habit of ordering take-away and sending it to the house a few times a week. Sometimes he brings it over himself and stays to make sure I that I eat. It's rather irritating."

"Well, I can't blame him. You have a habit of neglecting your bodily needs." John set half of the sandwich on a plate and put it on the table in front of Sherlock before wolfing down his half in two bites. Then he found a six-pack of Coke bottles in the fridge and handed one to Sherlock, who was now staring intently at his laptop screen. He popped open the Coke bottle and took a sip, but he ignored the sandwich.

"Did Lestrade send you another case?" John asked. He took a few gulps from the Coke bottle before screwing the cap back on.

"There's been a stabbing at the university," Sherlock answered, clicking on the attached file containing the police report. "These investigations would go a lot faster if I was allowed to see the actual crime scene, but Lestrade doesn't want his superiors finding out that he consults a seventeen-year-old on his cases."

Sherlock was still semi-aware of his surroundings, but John knew that wouldn't last for very long. "Well, I could really use a shower, if that's alright."

"Good, fine," Sherlock muttered, his eyes quickly scanning the report.

 _Aaand he's gone_ , John thought to himself. "Okay, then. I'll be upstairs."

If Sherlock hadn't been preoccupied at the moment, John may have been tempted to invite Sherlock to shower with him. Still, he knew that it probably wasn't a good idea. They'd managed to make it through a few hand jobs without Sherlock having a panic attack, but they had both remained almost entirely clothed under the covers of Sherlock's bed. The ministrations of Sherlock's long, dexterous hands brought John to climax in a matter of minutes, and afterwards he was quite eager to reciprocate. As the recipient, though, Sherlock always seemed a bit detached. He lay very still with a faraway look on his face while the other boy stroked him in an effort to give him pleasure. Then when he finally reached his climax, apart from a few shuddering breaths, he orgasmed silently as if he'd been trained to stay quiet. After a few of these attempts at intimacy, John decided that it was best to stick with snogging and cuddling for now. He could deal with the occasional raging erection on his own.

In the kitchen, Sherlock was mumbling to himself as he read the detective's notes. Apparently the murder weapon had been left embedded in the victim's body. The killer had used it to pin a note to the corpse's back, and the police were under the impression that the note was meant for the victim. "Idiots, all of them," Sherlock muttered. "Why would the killer leave a note for the victim? He's dead."

Curious about the contents of the note, Sherlock opened the attached images. A close-up photo of the victim's face appeared on the screen, and Sherlock's breath caught in his chest. He recognized the man as one of Jim's clients. With a trembling hand, Sherlock clicked on the other attachment showing an aerial view of the body. The moment he encountered the three words scrawled onto the bloody scrap of paper, Sherlock felt his whole world come to a crashing halt.

The note read, "YOU ARE MINE."

* * *

About twenty minutes later John descended the stairs with damp hair and a fresh change of clothes. He wandered into the kitchen and found the table vacant. "Sherlock?" he called. "If you're done crime-solving, I can turn on Netflix." He got no response, and the silence unsettled him. "Sherlock?"

He breathed a sigh a relief as soon as he walked into the living room and found Sherlock on the sofa. The sound on the telly was turned down low, but John could see Dr. House and Dr. Wilson arguing on the screen. "You couldn't wait until I got out of the shower before starting the next episode?"

"This is an old one," Sherlock murmured faintly. His voice sounded hollow. "I just put it on for a bit of background noise."

Taking a good look at him now, John noticed that Sherlock's eyes were glassy and unfocused. He was slumped back against the couch cushions like an invalid lying in a hospital bed. He hardly noticed when John paused the show and turned off the TV.

"Sherlock," John said softly as he settled next to him on the sofa, "how many Valium did you take?"

"Just the usual four," Sherlock answered, still staring straight ahead.

John lifted a hand to Sherlock's neck and felt a slow pulse. "Are you sure that's all?"

"If I wanted to kill myself, I wouldn't use pills to do it."

"God, Sherlock. Why would you even think of doing that?" The boy was unresponsive, and John's anxiety increased. "Sherlock?"

When he finally spoke again, Sherlock's voice was broken. "I'm sorry, John. This isn't fair to you."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm always doing something that scares you or worries you or hurts you, and I can't even tell you why."

Even if John could come up with reply, it was unlikely that Sherlock would remember it later, and so John simply wrapped his arms around him and held him for a few minutes, feeling as though if he let go, Sherlock would fade away. Then he got up and pulled Sherlock to his feet. "Come on," he said, guiding him to the stairs. "Let's get you to bed."

* * *

The room was dark when Sherlock stirred awake. There was a metallic taste in his mouth and a dull ache in his chest. Suddenly, the image of the blood-splattered note flashed in his mind, and the implications of it hit him full force. Jim had been watching him all this time, waiting for the perfect moment to reach out and take possession of him again. Obviously he knew about Sherlock's emails with Lestrade, about how he'd been consulting on murder cases. Chances were that he also knew about John.

 _John._

Sherlock turned onto his other side and found John asleep next to him. He tentatively placed a hand over the other boy's chest and felt his steady heartbeat. John. Kind eyes, strong arms, gentle hands, caring heart. Unlike Sherlock, John was pure and whole and and undamaged. John didn't deserve to get dragged into this, and Sherlock realized then that he would rather die than let that happen...

A cool breeze drifted in through the open window and roused John from his dreamless sleep. He opened his eyes and immediately noticed that the space next to him on the bed was empty. Turning on a lamp, he blinked and glanced around the room. He heard a buzzing sound and saw Sherlock's phone light up on the bedside table. John flipped open the phone and found several texts from Lestrade. He read the last two.

 **Lestrade:** What do you mean the note wasn't for the victim? Who was it meant for then?

 **Lestrade:** Dammit, Sherlock this is serious. The note said, "You are mine." Whoever the killer left it for may be in danger.

John began to look around frantically now. Finally he caught sight of Sherlock in the window. He was standing outside on the ledge with his arms outstretched, and John was reminded of the night they met.

John stuck his head out the window. "Sherlock, get your skinny arse back in here right now! This is no time for one of your daft experiments!" The boy lowered his arms, but he didn't turn around. "Sherlock?"

Taking care with his approach, John stepped out onto the roof and gently tugged at Sherlock's arm to pull him down from the ledge. He turned the boy to face him, and that's when John saw something that scared the hell out of him. Sherlock was crying.

 _Oh God, he was really going to jump._

John pulled Sherlock close and crushed his body against him. "Don't ever do that," he whispered brokenly. "Promise me. No matter what's going through that wonky brain of yours, you won't ever, ever do that to yourself."

Sherlock choked out a sob. "John, I-"

"Promise me!"

"Alright, I promise."

Back inside the room, Sherlock began to tremble, and not just from the cold. The moment John closed the window, Sherlock collapsed on the floor. John rushed to him, lifted his cold, thin, shivering body from the floor with surprising ease, and carried him back to bed. Pulling the covers over both of them, John cradled Sherlock in his arms and stroked the boy's cheek with his thumb, wiping away the tears.

"Please, Sherlock," John said imploringly, "I'm really scared now. Please tell me what's happening." He glanced over at the bedside table. "Lestrade keeps texting you about the case. Something about the killer leaving a note and someone being in danger." The trembling grew worse. "Oh God, Sherlock. What's going on?"

When Sherlock finally spoke, John wasn't prepared for the answer he got.

"The note was for me."

John's mind reeled. "How can that be?" he asked. "Do you know the murderer?"

"I know who organized the murder. He set it up to send me a message."

"Who is he?"

"Jim Moriarty," Sherlock murmured faintly. "My ex."

John stared down at him in confusion. "I though he was dead."

Sherlock turned away and grimaced. "Oh God, what did Mycroft tell you?"

"He didn't go into details. He just said that he had the guy executed."

Sherlock breathed a shaky sigh and said, "There are things Mycroft still doesn't know. The man he killed wasn't my boyfriend. He was a client."

John was sure he hadn't heard him right. "A client?"

"It's a long story."

"Sherlock, if someone out there is trying to hurt you-" John felt a shiver go through Sherlock's body. "Shh, it's okay. Everything's going to be okay," he whispered, tilting Sherlock's face up to look at him. "You can tell me anything. Just please help me understand what's going on."

Sherlock blinked up at John's kind face and let strong the arms holding him and the gentle hand stroking his cheek lull him into a sense of calm. Then he closed his eyes as if in shame and pressed the side of his face against John's shoulder before he began to speak. "I met Jim at the university. He was only twenty-three and had already secured a tenured position there as a professor. I thought he was brilliant." He cringed at the memory, at how he'd been taken in so easily. "He could tell that I wasn't a student. He asked where I lived and offered to give me a ride home. I told him that I had run away, and so he took me back to his place." Sherlock swallowed. "I thought he was planning to let me sleep on the sofa, but that night he took me to bed."

"It hurt more than I thought it would the first few times he… had sex with me. Jim said it was because my mind was always too worked up for me to be able to relax and enjoy it. In order to fix that, he introduced me to heroin." Sherlock subconsciously ran a thumb over the crook of his elbow. "He was a supplier, and so there was always a stash in the apartment. People would stop by the apartment at all hours, men who worked for him, dealers, buyers, clients with other criminal affairs to discuss. Every so often one of them would say something to me, sometimes even when Jim was in the room, things such as what a good little 'pet' I was and how they'd like to have some 'playtime' with me. I just told them to fuck off, because I figured Jim would kill them if they actually tried anything."

Sherlock's voice faltered a bit when he began to describe that night, the night everything changed. They had been sitting in the living room watching telly. Sherlock was lying on the sofa coming down from a high, and Jim was sitting in the recliner, his fingers beginning to twitch from boredom, when suddenly three of Jim's men came in the room. They stood around the sofa staring down at the fifteen-year-old boy, and Sherlock sat up and hunched himself in the corner. Before he knew it, all three men were on him, running their hands all over him.

"I don't know why I felt like I didn't have any say in what they were doing to me. I looked over at Jim expecting him to tell them to get their hands off of me, but he just sat there and watched like he was fascinated. When one of them stuck his tongue in my mouth, I tried to push him away, but he hit me and gripped the back of my head while the others kept groping me. They took my clothes off and pushed me to the floor. Then they looked up at Jim like they were asking for permission. He just gave them a nod," Sherlock's body tensed, "and so they held me down and raped me."

Tears were streaming silently down John's face now. He brought a hand to brush them away and hugged Sherlock tighter to his chest. He couldn't allow himself to fall apart while he was trying to hold Sherlock together.

"After that Jim decided to offer the same opportunity to his clients. He charged three hundred quid for an hour with me, a thousand quid if they wanted me delivered to their place of residence so the transaction could take place in private. Only a few of them could afford that option, though. Jim usually gave me a small dose of heroin beforehand, but he waited until it started to wear off before he let the clients in. He preferred to watch me struggle a bit while they fucked me. I never tried to escape. I couldn't go home after... after everything that had happened to me. I just hoped that at some point I'd overdose or one of the more sadistic clients would kill me. The last one, Victor, came rather close to accomplishing that." Sherlock swallowed. "When Mycroft got to the hospital, the police told him that they found me in Victor's flat, and so Mycroft assumed that I had been living with him the whole time."

When Sherlock dared to look up again, John's eyes were shut tight. He reached up and laid a hand against the other boy's chest where his heart was hammering against his ribs. "I'm sorry."

"Sherlock, don't," John whimpered, "don't you dare apologize for what happened to you. None of that was your fault."

Sherlock was going to tell John that it was okay if he couldn't do this anymore. It was all too much, he was too damaged, and even John wouldn't be able to fix him. When John opened his eyes, though, Sherlock was stunned into silence. He wasn't looking at Sherlock like he was a victim, like he was broken. John looked at him the way he always did, like he was beautiful, amazing, the center of his universe.

John rocked back and forth a bit and kissed his temple. Then he took a deep breath and broke the silence. "We have to tell your brother."

Sherlock's eyes widened. "I can't."

"I'm sorry, but we have to. If that bastard is still out there trying to get to you, then Mycroft needs to know what's going on." John smoothed back Sherlock's hair and kissed his forehead. "It's going to be alright, Sherlock. Just let me know when you're ready, and we'll tell him together. Okay?"

Sherlock doubted he would ever feel ready to tell Mycroft everything he just told John, but it was obvious now that he may have to do it at some point to stay safe, and more importantly, to keep John safe. "Okay."


	8. Chapter 8

The last few weeks of May brought the first heat wave of summer. Still, the interiors of the Holmes residence remained as cold and drafty as a tomb. Ever since the note from Jim had appeared, Sherlock seemed to be lost inside his head. Normally without experiments or e-mails from Lestrade to distract him, Sherlock would be bouncing off the walls, but now he lay still and listless, drowning in the darkest depths of his mind palace. John didn't know what to do to bring him back to the surface, and so he spent most of his time lying next to Sherlock trying to keep him warm.

He was cuddled up with Sherlock on the white linen sofa the night that Lestrade came knocking at the door. John hesitated when he heard the knock, unsure of whether it was safe to answer the door, but after a minute he heard a key turn in the lock and Lestrade's voice echo from the entrance hall. "Anybody home?"

"We're in here," John called from the sitting room. He sat up and massaged his eyelids. Sherlock's eyes were open, but he was still unresponsive. "Sherlock," John whispered, gently rubbing his shoulder. "Lestrade's here."

Sherlock blinked and looked up at him. "Who let him in?"

"He had a key."

"Dammit," Sherlock muttered. "Mycroft must have given him a copy." He slowly raised himself into a sitting position as Lestrade entered the room and took a seat in the recliner. The inspector looked like he hadn't gotten a good night's sleep for days.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything," Lestrade said, taking notice of the two boys' disheveled appearances.

Sherlock shook his head. "You aren't. I just can't imagine what it is that you want to discuss with me. I told you before that I couldn't be of any further assistance on your current case."

Lestrade sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Look, I've had a talk with Mycroft-" he glanced at John. "Would you prefer for John to step out of the room?"

"No, he can stay," Sherlock answered.

Lestrade cleared his throat. "The thing is, Mycroft warned me not to press you too hard for information. He's worried that certain details in this case may be somewhat connected to, um, your experiences… at the university." He sighed grimly. "We don't have to talk about that right now, but my team and I have been working this investigation nonstop, and we still haven't found any leads, so if you have any information that might be useful, anything at all, I'm all ears."

Sherlock folded his hands and rested his elbows on his knees. "You met Mycroft about two years ago when you were working on my missing persons case. Is that correct?"

"How did you-?"

"Did he show you a copy of my medical file before he had it destroyed?" Lestrade nodded slowly. "Then you read in the pathology report that I had heroin in my system when I was found," Sherlock said in a monotone. "The murder victim's autopsy report included a drug panel that came up positive for heroin as well."

"So you think you both got the drugs from the same person?"

"I don't think it, I know it," Sherlock muttered. He fixed Lestrade with a piercing stare. "Even if I were to tell you everything I know about the details surrounding this case, it's doubtful that you would believe me. These are not deductions, these are things that I personally witnessed. I don't have any proof."

"That's alright. Just give me some place to start."

Sherlock sighed and leaned back against the cushions. John was slightly surprised by his calmness. "The crime syndicate that's responsible for a majority of the drug trade in central London is controlled by one of the professors at Westminster. The murder victim was one of his clients."

Lestrade took a notebook out of his pocket and flipped through the pages. "Can you give me a name?"

"Jim Moriarty."

"We've conducted interviews with every faculty member at the university. Professor Moriarty has a solid alibi for the time of the murder."

"This man handles all his criminal affairs through other people. There's never any direct contact."

"But you've met him?"

"I've been in his apartment." Sherlock's face remained blank. "If you searched his flat, you would find enough evidence to put him away for a long time, but I don't think the word of a seventeen-year-old qualifies as probable cause for a warrant."

Lestrade put away the notebook and ran a hand through his hair. "That's everything then? That's all that you're able to tell me?" It was obvious that he was still waiting for Sherlock to tell him who the note was for.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes. That's all that I'm able to tell you."

The inspector wearily got to his feet. "Well, I'll look into it." His expression softened a bit. "Thank you," he said, awkwardly patting the teen on the shoulder. "Um, just…" He sighed. "Take care of yourself."

With that, Lestrade made his exit and headed for the entrance hall. John got up and followed him do the door and managed to stop him before he walked out. "Inspector Lestrade?"

The man turned around and smiled at John. "You can call me Greg."

"Right, thanks. Can I have your mobile number, you know, in case of an emergency? I just… I'm worried about him."

"Join the club." He reached into his pocket and handed John a small square piece of paper. "Here's my card. If there's ever any trouble, you can call that number anytime, day or night."

After Lestrade left, John turned the lock and rested his head against the doorframe. He took a moment to collect himself before returning to the sitting room. As soon as he reached the sofa, however, he found it empty.

 _Dammit, I can't turn my back for one second._

John wandered around the vast mansion for a few minutes calling Sherlock's name until he stepped into the kitchen and found Sherlock standing at the sink. "Sherlock?" John said softly. "You okay?"

For all the stoic composure Sherlock had possessed during his conversation with Lestrade, now he was pale and trembling. John heard him taking deep, shaky breaths as he drew near the boy and saw a bloodstained razor clenched in his right hand. His left sleeve was rolled up and there was a deep gash on his wrist dripping blood into the sink.

John pressed his body up against Sherlock's back and wrapped his arms around his waist. He felt Sherlock shiver. "Shh, it's alright," he whispered. "I've got you."

Sherlock's voice was barely audible. "I only did one. Then I stopped."

John sighed and kissed the back of his neck. "Thank you for stopping." He stepped away briefly to grab a clean washcloth from the drawer and held it under the tap. "Here, keep pressure on it," he muttered, holding the damp washcloth against the cut.

Sherlock huffed quietly. "Always the doctor."

Once the bleeding was properly stemmed, John led Sherlock back into the sitting room and took out his first aid kit. He gently applied a few dabs of Neosporin to the cut and bandaged Sherlock's wrist tightly with a roll of gauze. The stark white bandage created a strange contrast with the deep red scars lining Sherlock's forearm. As the pair of them lay back down on the sofa, John tugged Sherlock's sleeve back up, pausing for a moment to glance at the faded drawing of a heart below his palm. He would need to fill it back in soon.

"You know," John whispered as Sherlock tucked his bandaged arm against his chest, "it's my heart that you wear under your sleeve."

Sherlock smiled wryly. "That makes sense seeing as how I don't have one."

John reached around and closed his hand over Sherlock's fist "I don't believe that."

"There's a reason people at school call me a psychopath."

"They're idiots."

"Yes, obviously," Sherlock muttered, "but the truth is most individuals have difficulty telling the difference between psychopaths and sociopaths because they present with the same symptoms. The child psychiatrist my parents sent me to required less time to make the proper diagnosis because she had spent years studying my brother. She recognized that we both have the capacity to experience things like emotions and empathy, but we have an abnormal ability to repress them."

"Mycroft was never prone to outbursts of brotherly compassion. The day he came to the hospital, though…. I'd never seen him like that before." Sherlock closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. "I was weak and malnourished and I had bruises on my neck and track marks on my arm. He took one look at me and broke down. I couldn't handle it. I just shut off my emotions and lay there like I was made of stone. It scared me how easily I could do that, but I had to or else it would have hurt." Sherlock turned to face John. "It's not normal. It shouldn't hurt to feel loved."

John felt his heart break a little with every self-deprecating word. "Sherlock, you were in pain. Sometimes it's easier not to feel anything." He cupped Sherlock's face with both hands. "Listen to me. There is nothing wrong with you."

John looked into Sherlock's eyes willing him to believe it. He saw the wheels turning in Sherlock's mind at warp speed, but he wasn't sure if his words had any affect. Before he could say anything else, though, his phone buzzed in his pocket. John flipped open his phone and typed a quick response. "Sorry, that was my mum just checking to see if I'm still alive."

Sherlock sighed. "You can go home if you need to. I'll be okay."

John pocketed his phone and propped himself up on one elbow. "If it's alright with you, I'd rather not go home tonight. Things with my parents are a little rocky right now."

"What's going on?"

"Well, um, the other night we were just sitting at the table eating dinner and my mum asked me if I was taking anyone to prom on Saturday, so I told her that I was going with my boyfriend." John grimaced. "That didn't go over well."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

John shrugged. "It didn't seem that important compared to everything else going on."

"Of course it's important," Sherlock said, taking John's hand and stroking his palm with his thumb. "That was a really brave thing you did."

"Honestly, it wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. At least they're not gonna to try to stop me from going to prom."

Sherlock smirked. "That would be tremendously ambitious of them." He sighed and looked up at the ceiling. "God, I'd forgotten all about… that upcoming event."

John grinned. "You still can't even say it, can you?"

"Of course I can," Sherlock said dismissively. "I simply prefer not to."

"We'll just call it a date then. Our first date."

For a moment, the two boys lay in each other's arms and almost felt like a normal couple. Soon they would have one night together where they could forget about everything else going on. One night that was just about them.


	9. Chapter 9

On Saturday night, Harry Watson came home from uni to see her brother off on his first prom date. Their parents were conveniently out of town that night, and so John didn't have to deal with ridiculous questions such as, "Are you just doing this because your older sister made it seem cool or edgy to be gay?" or "If you're still attracted to girls, why wouldn't you pick the more socially acceptable option?" Harry for her part helped him to feel like just another kid getting ready for prom.

"My baby brother's all grown up," Harry said, adjusting the buttons on John's navy blue vest. "Seriously, though, this outfit makes you look like a little old man."

John rolled his eyes. "You say that about everything I wear."

"Aren't you supposed to be in a tuxedo?"

"We're sneaking into a night club. It's best to try not to stand out."

"Right, this ensemble won't make you stand out at all."

"Shut up."

Harry giggled. "Alright, fine. You look quite adorable, actually. Your date is one lucky bloke."

"Trust me I'm the lucky one," John muttered, smiling to himself.

"Speaking of luck, I took the liberty of packing a few essentials in your overnight bag." She unzipped the outer pocket where she'd slipped in a packet of condoms and medical-grade lubricant.

"Jesus, Harry," John muttered. "We're not… we haven't-"

"You're spending the night in a hotel aren't you? I wanted you to at least to be prepared."

John sighed and rubbed his eyes. He and Sherlock had shared a bed platonically countless times before, and he hadn't planned on anything going differently tonight, but he was not about to have this conversation with his sister. Thankfully at that moment there was a knock at the door, and Harry rushed to answer it. John zipped up his bag and tugged nervously at the sleeves of his white shirt as his sister swung the door open. When John saw his boyfriend standing in the doorway, his breath caught in his chest.

Sherlock was dressed in black trousers and a fitted purple shirt that perfectly silhouetted his thin frame. His pale skin was luminous in the light of the lampposts shining a halo over the doorstep.

"Wow," was all John could think of to say.

Sherlock's high cheekbones briefly tinged pink. "You too."

"Alright you're both bloody gorgeous," Harry interjected. "Now get going. It's almost nine o'clock," she said nudging her brother out the door. As John and Sherlock walked down the front steps to the black Mercedes waiting in the driveway, Harry called after them, "Have fun, and practice safe sex!" John quickly glanced back and the two siblings affectionately flipped each other off.

They stopped at the hotel first and checked into their room. John set his overnight bag down on the marble countertop below the bathroom mirror. The silver tap sparkled and the scented bar soap in the corner smelled of lavender. John fiddled with the contents of his bag while Sherlock sat at the edge of the king-sized mattress and watched him.

"I don't think we'll be needing those," Sherlock muttered, pointing to the outer pocket.

"We won't be needing what?" John asked over his shoulder.

"The condoms your sister smuggled into your bag."

With a sigh, John turned around and leaned back against the counter. "I know. I didn't think… I wasn't expecting anything like that just because we booked a hotel room."

Sherlock shook his head. "No, I mean, if you did want to, we wouldn't need to use those. I was tested for everything at the hospital, you know, after they found me," he said, staring down at his hands. "I'm clean. Just in case you were… worried about that."

John took a deep breath and crossed the room to sit down next to Sherlock at the edge of the mattress. "The only thing I'm worried about is you trying to be 'compliant' and going along with whatever you think it is that I want even if that's not really what you want. It doesn't work that way. This has to be something that we both want."

Sherlock studied him for a moment. "How are people supposed to know what they want?"

"They just go with what they feel," John said, encompassing Sherlock's narrow waist in his arms. "We'll figure it out when the time comes, but it's okay if that's not tonight."

Sherlock stared down at John's thin, pink mouth and whispered. "I would like you to kiss me."

"I'd like that too."

The kiss was slow and soft and tender. John refrained from gripping the back of Sherlock's head or doing anything too invasive with his tongue, but soon enough they were both so lost in sensation that they fell back against the mattress.

"Okay, I think we're getting a little ahead of ourselves," John said, coming up for air. "We have a… thing to go to."

Sherlock nodded. "Right, yes. That."

They heard footsteps coming from the hallway. John peeked his head out the door and saw a small group of their fellow Paddington Academy students shuffling down the hall to stairs. He beckoned Sherlock towards the door and the two of them followed the queue of couples down the long stairwell. At the ground level they snuck out the side exit like a band of refugees fleeing a warzone.

A breeze from the Thames cooled the warm night air. Sherlock and John held hands as they ran across the busy street aglow with streetlamps and headlights. The neon sign for the Globe loomed near, but they knew they couldn't go through the front entrance. Still, the group of kids they were traveling with seemed to know where they were going. The gay teen train wound around a corner into an alley and descended down a grubby set of stairs to a heavy wooden door.

"Apparently we're going in through the basement," John muttered.

"Seems a bit risky," Sherlock responded. "There could be murderers lurking inside."

John grinned. "Don't get your hopes up."

The dimly lit basement was a bit creepy but blessedly empty. Sherlock felt a little more apprehension going up the second flight of steps that led to the first floor. John gave his hand a reassuring squeeze as they stepped through the door into the club. They were met with a colourful myriad of flashing lights and the loud thrum of music. A vast crowd of people filled the dance floor, and at the edge of the throng they spotted a familiar face.

Molly beamed brightly at Sherlock and John as they approached. "Sherlock! John! Glad you guys could make it."

John noticed the way Molly's eyes dilated a bit while she was looking at Sherlock. He wrapped an arm around his boyfriend's waist and smiled amiably. "Well, we're glad to be here. Aren't we?" he said, glancing up at Sherlock. The boy was staring around the room taking in all the lights and the noise and the people. John rubbed his back gently and asked, "Sherlock, you okay?"

Sherlock pressed two fingers against his temple and muttered, "I need a drink."

"The bar's over there," Molly said, pointing him in the right direction. Sherlock nodded, which was the most he could contribute to the exchange of mundane niceties at the moment. As he walked away, John moved to follow him, but Molly held him back. "Just a heads up, all of us need to be out of here by eleven. That's usually when the police show up for a raid. They're pretty vigilant this time of year about high school kids sneaking into clubs."

John furrowed his brow and looked down at his watch. "That gives us only about an hour and a half."

Molly smiled sardonically. "Good luck keeping him here for that long."

"Thanks," John muttered. During the whole conversation, Molly's boyfriend Tom had been dancing nonchalantly in the background. It seemed that he had formed a habit of becoming selectively deaf whenever Sherlock's name came up. He nodded to John, who nodded back. "Have a good time," he whispered to Molly.

"You too," Molly responded.

Over at the bar, Sherlock was leaning against the counter with his shoulders hunched. John sidled up next to him and tilted his head in his own subtle, unassuming way of asking what's wrong. Sherlock picked up on this cue and mumbled, "I have to be careful."

"What do you mean?" John asked.

"I can't drink too much or Mycroft might try to put me back in rehab." Sherlock pressed the heels of his hand against his eyes. "Sorry, I'm doing it again. I promised myself I wouldn't think about stuff like that tonight."

John reached out and stroked Sherlock's arm. "Hey, it's okay. I should be careful too. Alcoholism runs in my family." He looked up at the colourful array of bottles lined up behind the counter. "We'll both have just one drink, and then that's it for the night, so we better make it a good one."

Sherlock took a quick glance at the selection. "How about a rum and coke?"

John smiled. "Sounds perfect."

He got the bartender's attention and paid for their drinks. Sherlock picked up his glass and knocked back the sweet, fizzy mixture. Then he saw John casually sipping his drink and realized that he ought to slow down. When it came to addictive substances, Sherlock had always found himself at one extreme or the other, either completely sober or dangerously intoxicated. It was nice for once to glide freely along the spectrum. Sherlock's mind was still relatively clear, but the sea of swirling sensory data seemed less bothersome now. He squinted up at the flashing lights and wondered if the pleasant sensation vibrating in his chest was something like… happiness. Then he looked at John again and he was sure.

John met his gaze. "How are you feeling now?"

"Splendid." Sherlock answered. He took another slow sip. "You know, John, you really do look incredible tonight."

"I guess the rum is starting to get to you."

"It's a simple enough observation, John. Alcohol isn't a relevant factor."

"Alright, smart-arse," John said, chuckling. "If you say so."

Sherlock finished off the rest of his drink and slammed his glass back down on the counter. "Come on, this is a club. We should be dancing."

John rushed to finish the rest of his drink as well. "Okay, but if you must know, I can't dance."

"That's fine," Sherlock said, taking his hand and tugging him toward the dance floor. "All you have to do is stand there and look pretty."

"But you're the pretty one," John said, grinning.

"I beg to differ, John."

They nudged their way through the crowd of writhing bodies to the middle of the dance floor. When they found a spot with enough elbowroom Sherlock stopped and faced John with a blazing look in his eyes. Then all at once he began to move. The other couples dancing around them were mostly just grinding and flailing about half-heartedly, but Sherlock's movements were swift and deliberate, yet seemingly effortless. John barely noticed his own jaw coming unhinged as he watched Sherlock swivel and spin. The boy looked more impassioned and alive than he'd ever seen him. All around people had stopped moving to watch, but Sherlock paid them no mind. It was all for John.

Sherlock slid to his knees at John's feet, and then he slowly worked his way up John's body. John inhaled sharply as he felt Sherlock move against him, rolling his hips and sliding his hands all over John's body. He reached up and cupped Sherlock's jaw, pulling him in for a kiss. Sherlock stilled and leaned in, forgetting about everything but John's lips against his. Another song with a faster tempo started playing and the space around them became more tightly packed, but Sherlock and John stayed locked together in their own little world.

As they stood in the middle of the dance floor, the friction and collective body heat from the crowd made the air-conditioned club feel like a sauna. After a while Sherlock noticed that John was clinging to him. "You alright, John?" Sherlock said loudly over the music.

"Just feeling a bit dizzy," John answered.

Sherlock drew back and studied him. John's face was flushed and his hair was damp with perspiration. Only then did he notice that the heat was affecting him as well. "Come on," he said, taking John's hand. "We need to cool down."

They pushed their way out of the crowd and wandered back over to the bar. Sherlock glanced over at the other end of the long counter and saw the bartender chatting up a girl who was obviously in her late teens but trying to act like she was in her twenties. Seizing the opportunity, Sherlock hopped over the counter.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" John hissed.

Sherlock moved quickly, grabbing a hand towel next to the sink and running it under the tap. Then he shot a quick glance at the bartender to make sure his presence had gone unnoticed and hoisted his long legs back over to the other side. Immediately he pulled John towards him and pressed the cool, damp flannel against his temple. John's bewildered expression was replaced with one of relief. He blinked up at Sherlock as the boy gently mopped at his sweaty forehead, his neck, the sides of his face.

"Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?" John breathed.

"Take it easy, John," Sherlock said softly. "I think the heat is getting to you."

"No, it's just you," John whispered. "You do this to me. You're a bloody health hazard, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock smirked. "If you say so, doctor."

The simple act of applying a cold washcloth was strangely intimate. It also felt strange for Sherlock to be the one holding the washcloth this time. He thought of all the instances that John had patiently done so to tend to Sherlock's self-inflicted injuries. He realized then that he never wanted to put John through that again.

These thoughts were interrupted when Sherlock and John heard a small, squeaky voice over the music. "Oh God," Sherlock muttered.

John glanced around the dimly lit corner of the club. "Is that Dannie?"

His question was answered when the spritely girl emerged from the shadows and ran right up to them, wrapping her arms around them. Irene Adler appeared behind her in a tight black dress and tall stilettos. Dannie gibbered excitedly, "Look, Irene. My mummy and daddy are here."

Sherlock rested a hand lightly on her shoulder and drew back. "Dannie," he said carefully, "how much have you had to drink?"

"Just a couple of shots," Dannie said, hiccupping slightly. Sherlock noticed that her scar had been traced over with some kind of body glitter that matched her maraschino cherry red dress. She beamed up at them and chirped, "I've got sparkles on my face!"

"You look lovely, Dannie," John said kindly, a hint of concern in his eyes. He watched Sherlock step away and beckon Irene over to the dark corner away from the noise so he could have a serious conversation with her.

"I trust," he said in a low voice, "that you have no intentions of doing anything with Dannie that she doesn't like."

"Of course," Irene responded silkily. "You know how I operate."

Sherlock nodded. "Good. The thing is, though, no matter how careful and considerate you are with her, there's still a chance she may experience a bit of anxiety. If at any point it seems like she's having a panic attack-"

"She knows about the epilepsy," Dannie interjected.

"Well, then," Sherlock muttered, "if that happens, just press something cold to her face and remind her to breathe."

"And don't let her do any more shots," John added. "Alcohol can lower her seizure threshold."

Irene looked from John to Sherlock. "Alright, Mum and Dad, no need to fret. I'll take good care of your little girl."

"I'm not that little," Dannie said indignantly. Irene just smiled at her and took her hand, and the pair of them made a beeline for the dance floor.

John sidled up next to Sherlock as he watched them go. "She'll be okay," he said reassuringly. "Irene will probably rip the balls off any guy that tries to touch her."

Sherlock chuckled. "Yes, that is probable."

John took his hand and interlocked their fingers. "You ready to go back out there?"

"I have to return this," Sherlock said, holding up the damp washcloth. They walked back over to the counter where the bartender was standing by the sink. "Here, this is yours." He tossed the flannel to him, and the bewildered bartender caught it. Then Sherlock and John walked away quickly before he could ask them how they got it in the first place.

Just seconds after they stepped back onto the noisy, crowded dance floor, the flashing lights overhead stilled and turned a pale shade of blue while the first notes of a slow song emanated from the speakers. Apparently whoever was in control of the sound system was aware of how many high school kids were hiding amongst the crowd tonight. The older patrons glanced around, confused by the sudden change in the club's ambience.

John looked up at Sherlock and asked. "Have you ever slow-danced with anyone before?"

Sherlock bit his lip uncertainly and shook his head. Then he cleared his throat and said his usual dignified tone, "How should we proceed?"

John just smiled at him and led him back to the center of the dance floor where the crowd had thinned and the air was cooler, more breathable. They both stood still a moment, just listening to the song. The slow tune sounded wistful, almost sad. Rather than trying to figure out the traditional slow-dance positions, Sherlock and John managed to entwine themselves together, John with his arms wrapped around Sherlock's waist and Sherlock clinging to John's upper body. He rested his chin on John's shoulder as they slowly rocked back and forth.

"Hey Sherlock?" John whispered, his lips brushing against Sherlock's ear.

"Mmhm?" Sherlock murmured.

"I know this is random, but did Dannie really get drunk enough to the point that she honestly thought we were her parents?"

"I don't think she was serious," Sherlock said quietly. "She's been in the foster system since she was four, and she told me she can't remember what her parents looked like."

John sighed, and then furrowed his brow. "Which one of us was she referring to as Mummy?"

Sherlock shrugged, unperturbed. "Sometimes even the most progressive individuals still use hetero-normative expressions. Obviously any child of ours would have two dads."

Absentmindedly, John moved his arms up further, pressing his hands against Sherlock's back. "Do you ever think about stuff like that?" he asked tentatively. "About the future? Stuff like going off to uni, settling down someplace in London, having a life together?"

Sherlock stilled a bit, his sharp cheekbone brushing against the side John's face. "I don't know. Before we met, I didn't really want to… stick around for very long. I just focused on surviving one day at a time."

Chilled by that answer, John closed his eyes. "And now?"

Sherlock was quiet. John tilted his head back to look at him, and Sherlock slowly met his gaze. "Now all I know is that it hurts to try to imagine having any kind of life without you in it."

"You don't ever have to worry about that. Okay?" John whispered. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."

John reached up and stroked his cheek with his thumb. As much as neither of them wanted to dwell on it tonight, it was impressed upon them how fragile, how precarious it was, what they had, that as they stood there under the pale blue lights, shadows from Sherlock's past loomed in the dark waiting to tear them away from each other. Sherlock rested his forehead against John's and willed himself to breathe slowly. Locked in their own little world again, they almost didn't notice when the lights went out and the music stopped.

"Dammit," John muttered, looking towards the front entrance. "The police are here early."

Torchlights flashed in the darkened club. "Come on," Sherlock muttered. They dashed through the panicked crowd as all the other underage kids in the building scurried for the exits. Casting a glance behind them at the chaos, Sherlock and John slipped into the basement. They crept down the stairs, but rather than heading for the door, Sherlock veered left and kneeled down behind a stack of crates and boxes.

John followed him and muttered, "What are we doing?"

"Keeping an eye out for Dannie," Sherlock answered as several of their fellow Paddington Academy students passed by, fleeing out the door. He squinted in the dark for any sign of the spritely girl. Then on the right, the door to the cupboard under the stairs opened.

"Oh hi," Dannie said, peeking out at them. She was propped up on her elbow with Irene lying next to her.

"The police showed up for a raid," John said urgently, not bothering to ask the two girls what they were doing in there.

"Oh, right," Irene said lightly. "That's why we're down here."

Sherlock suppressed an eye roll. "So what's your plan?"

"Well, I guess we'll hide out here until they're gone," Dannie responded. "Then we'll take the tube back to Baker Street." All four of them looked up when they heard loud voices near the door. "Hurry, go," she squeaked. Then she pulled the door shut.

Out on the street, Sherlock and John saw red and blue lights flashing around the corner. They didn't hesitate for too long, which was fortunate. As soon as they hit the pavement, a copper burst out the door behind them and gave chase.

"Take my hand!" Sherlock shouted, holding out his palm. John took it, and they rushed forward into the traffic. They heard car horns honking and the copper yelling after them, but they kept going. They didn't look back or stop, not even when they made it back to the hotel. Only after they got in through the side entrance and dashed up the six flights of stairs to their floor and shut themselves in the room did they finally pause to get their breath back.

John leaned back against the wall in the entranceway and closed his eyes. "Why is there always so much running involved?" he said gasping for air.

Sherlock smirked, but he didn't bother coming up with a witty remark. He just strode over to the bed and took off his socks and shoes, fluffed the pillows and lay back on the mattress. As John tarried near the door feeling his adrenaline levels gradually subside, time seemed to slow down. He kicked off his socks and shoes as well and approached the mattress. _This is not my first time getting into bed with him,_ he reminded himself, still a bit nervous. _It'll be the same as all the other times before._

The low light of the bedside table lamps cast shadows in the valleys of Sherlock's high cheekbones and the triangular dip at the crest of his lips, just like on the first night John held him in his arms.

"What are you doing all the way over there?" Sherlock asked, reaching across the gap between them.

John laid a hand over his on the mattress. "Just looking at you. I could lie here all night and just look at you."

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Then I suppose I should give you more to look at." He rolled over onto his back and started undoing the buttons of his shirt. His nimble fingers worked quickly, but he moved slowly to each button, exposing smooth alabaster skin inch by inch. He shrugged out of the sleeves and cast the shirt aside while keeping his back against the mattress. Mesmerized by the display of his upper body, John nearly missed the moment when Sherlock unzipped his trousers and pulled them off, baring his long, slender legs.

"You too," Sherlock breathed as John lay there, taking in the sight of him. "I want to see you too."

Without needing further direction, John quickly stripped down to his tight red pants. Sherlock's eyes roamed over John's body, examining his broad shoulders and taut muscles and tan skin. Then their eyes met. Silently, like a couple of innocent kids playing "show me yours and I'll show you mine," they each removed the last piece of clothing covering their bodies. Now they were naked together in bed, which was something new entirely.

"This only goes as far as you want it to," John said softly. "I'm following your lead."

Sherlock's mercurial eyes shone brightly in the low light. The boy, usually so closed-off and withdrawn, now lay open and vulnerable and trusting.

"John," Sherlock whispered. "Touch me."

Tentatively, John extended his hand and laid his palm against Sherlock's bare chest. He inched closer, keeping his eyes trained on the boy's face as his hands explored the landscape of Sherlock's body. He heard a small intake of breath as his hands slid over Sherlock's hip down to his thigh. Everywhere he touched was incredibly smooth.

"My God, no wonder you're so cold all the time," John mused. "Your body has no insulation."

"I need you to keep me warm, John."

Sherlock reached up and pulled him closer until their bodies aligned. John kneeled between Sherlock's thighs to keep himself steady as they were pressed together, chest to chest, hip to hip, skin to skin, neither of them moving yet, just drinking in the feel of each other. John brought up a hand to stroke Sherlock's cheek, and Sherlock tilted his face up, his lips slightly parted. Slowly, John leaned down and kissed him. Sherlock latched his arms over John's neck, his body elevated from the mattress slightly as he gave himself over completely. John burrowed his face against Sherlock's shoulder, breathing him in. Then he reached around and pressed his hands against Sherlock's back. The boy tensed.

"Oh God," John breathed.

What John felt under his fingertips was a crisscross pattern of long jagged lines raised against the skin of Sherlock's back. Sherlock hadn't mentioned before that some of the clients used to beat him while they raped him. Sniffing back tears, John closed his hands into fists and held Sherlock tighter.

"It's alright, John," Sherlock whispered. "I'm alright."

John took a deep breath to steady his voice. "You have scars on your back."

Sherlock slowly lowered himself back onto the mattress. "At least you can be certain that those weren't my doing." Almost instinctively, he tucked his left arm against his chest.

Regaining his composure, John took hold of Sherlock's wrist and gazed down at the scar-riddled arm with tenderness. He planted a line of kisses from the crook of his elbow down to the faded heart below his palm. Then he pressed Sherlock's hand against his chest where his own heart was beating painfully hard. "Just do me a favor," he whispered. "Stay with me. Don't go getting lost inside your head. Just please, stay with me."

"Trust me, John, you're all I'm thinking about right now."

The corners of John's eyes were crinkled with emotion as his trembling hand brushed over Sherlock's forehead and stroked back his dark curls. It wasn't fair that this long-awaited moment had to be tinged with so much sadness. Sherlock wished that they had met sooner, that he hadn't run away from home when he was fifteen. Still, the past couldn't be undone, but they were here now, together. His mind was clear and calm. The choice was his. Sherlock knew what he wanted.

"John," he whispered, "I want you inside of me."

John's eyes widened, his breath catching in his chest. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," Sherlock said softly. "I need you. I need everything you can give me."

"I'm yours," John promised. "Everything I have to give is yours."

The soft golden glow from the streetlamps outside illuminated the windows, and John felt like he had fallen into a dream. He slid off the bed and reached for his overnight bag, his shaky hands fumbling for the packet of lubricant. The slick, shiny substance was cold, but John's hands were warm as his fingers slid inside Sherlock's body, soothing and stretching the tight ring of muscle. Sherlock tilted his head back, his long neck exposed, his breath coming in small gasps.

John kneeled between Sherlock's spread thighs once more. Arousal surged though him as he stared down at the beautiful boy lying underneath him and asked in a soft, tentative voice, "You sure you're ready for this?"

Sherlock gazed up at him with bright eyes and whispered, "John, please."

Giving in to the gravitational pull, John lowered himself down and kissed Sherlock as he slowly pressed inside him. Sherlock gasped and angled up his hips until their bodies were slotted together perfectly. John stayed still for a moment and watched Sherlock's face, checking for any sign of physical or emotional distress. Then he leaned over, pressing his lips against Sherlock's cheekbones, his eyelids, his nose, and his temple.

An amazing, earth-shattering realization finally hit Sherlock. This was going to be the first time someone made love to him.

John set a languid pace, rocking them both gently back and forth. Sherlock entangled his long legs around John's torso, pressing him deeper into his body, pressing them closer together. He felt a jolt of pleasure go down his spine as John gave a more earnest thrust and found the small bundle of nerves inside him. Encouraged by the boy's responsive gasps and moans, John increased the rhythm, hitting the same spot over and over again.

Soon enough John felt Sherlock trembling underneath him. He pressed his lips tenderly along the boy's collarbone and down his chest as it rose and fell with ragged breaths. The overwhelming sensation of his orgasm building made Sherlock feel like he was falling. He reached out seeking John's face with his hands, needing to see him, and John lifted his head to meet his gaze. The look of open desperation in Sherlock's eyes made John's heart contract with an ache so wonderful he wanted to feel it for the rest of his life. The words bubbled over before he could stop them. "Dammit, Sherlock, I love you so much."

Sherlock clung to him for dear life as he went over the edge. "John."

He slammed his eyes shut and came with a shuddering cry. John felt Sherlock clench and spasm around him, and he swiftly followed him down.

Before they cleaned each other off and put on their pajamas and brushed their teeth, before they turned off the light and got back under the covers, even before their heart rates slowed and their breathing evened out, they lay together for a brief eternity, just holding each other.

"Tell me you're real," Sherlock said softly. "You're too wonderful to be real."

John smiled and kissed him on the forehead. "You're the wonderful one."


	10. Chapter 10

Sunday morning Sherlock and John woke up under the covers and indulged in a bit of clothed snogging before going down to the lobby for breakfast. John was relieved to see that all the other members of gay teen train had found their way back to the hotel last night and hadn't gotten arrested. There was a full English breakfast laid out in the dining area, but, of course, Sherlock opted for a solitary styrofoam cup of black coffee with two sugars. After a bit of nudging, though, John managed to get him to eat a few bites of toast.

They sat in comfortable silence at a secluded table near the window. Outside the streetlamps glimmered faintly in the mid-morning drizzle, but Sherlock and John were encompassed in their own light. The warmth of the afterglow from sleeping together last night, literally and euphemistically, had still yet to fade. Sherlock wondered if the universe was feeling gracious enough to allow them to hold on to it a little longer.

After he was finished with breakfast, John looked up from his plate and asked, "So, what do you want to do today?"

Sherlock sipped idly at his coffee. "We should probably stop by Baker Street and check to see if Dannie made it home alright."

"God, I hope she did," John murmured.

"Dannie is incredibly proficient in the game of hide and seek. I'm sure that she and Irene managed to avoid getting arrested." Sherlock set down his cup and stared out the window. "Still, it would be good to verify that."

He glanced at the CCTV camera across the street. Undoubtedly Mycroft would review the footage later, though he usually watched it in real time. It was Sunday morning, and so Mycroft and Lestrade were probably having a lie-in. Sherlock knew that Lestrade would have called him by now if there had been any major breakthroughs in the case. Choosing to disclose a fraction of the truth to Lestrade had been his way of trying to avoid having that particular conversation with his brother. Apparently the information he provided hadn't been enough. Still, Sherlock hoped that they at least wouldn't have to deal with it today, that they had a little more time.

John stroked Sherlock's hand and waited patiently for the boy to resurface from his thoughts. Sherlock blinked and looked back at him, and John smiled. "Still with me?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"Looks like the rain is starting to let up." John muttered. "Let's get going, then. Dannie's probably worried about us too."

The tube station was rather busy for a Sunday morning. During the short trip across central London, Sherlock and John remained standing and held onto one of the metal poles in the train car. An elderly couple who looked like they were dressed to go to church smiled warmly at the two boys standing suggestively close to each other, the short, blonde one leaning against the tall, dark-haired boy and nestling his head against his shoulder. John wrapped his free arm around Sherlock and laid a hand gently on his back. He hadn't said anything this morning when Sherlock locked himself in the bathroom to change into his usual ensemble consisting of jeans and long-sleeved black t-shirt. For a moment, he had contemplated muttering something like, "It's not like I haven't seen everything already," but then he remembered that wasn't quite true. Though John knew about the scars on Sherlock's back, he still hadn't looked at them, and he had a feeling that Sherlock didn't want him to see them yet.

The sun was peeking out from behind a thin veil of clouds by the time Sherlock and John reached the front steps of 221B. Instead of taking out his key, Sherlock swung the heavy silver doorknocker. Soon enough, they heard a shuffle of tiny feet, and Dannie peeked her head out the door.

"Morning," John said amiably.

Dannie swung the door open and exclaimed, "You're alive!"

"Obviously," Sherlock responded, smiling. "Glad to see you are too."

The girl stepped aside to let them in. "Irene left a couple of hours ago. She gave me this," Dannie said, procuring a wallet-size photograph from her pocket, "to help me remember her face while we're apart."

"That was thoughtful," John murmured, glancing down at the picture.

Sherlock smirked. "Knowing Irene, I would have expected something a bit more risqué."

"Shut up," Dannie muttered, thwacking him lightly on the arm

As the three of them congregated in the hallway, Mrs. Hudson came scurrying out of her flat and ushered them away from the stairwell. "Sorry, boys, I can't let you upstairs right now," she explained quickly. "A gentleman stopped by to take a look at the flat. I may finally have a tenant."

John raised an eyebrow. "Seriously? This bloke wasn't put off by all the lab equipment and chemicals lying around?"

Mrs. Hudson shrugged. "I suppose not. Apparently he's a chemistry professor at the university."

All the air seemed to have been sucked out of the room. John turned to look at Sherlock, whose face was pulled into a cold, unreadable mask. He knew that look, the calm before the storm.

Completely oblivious, Mrs. Hudson nattered on. "He's a chatty sort of fellow. Irish accent, but his last name sounded a bit French." She tapped her forehead in concentration. "Something with an 'M.' Oh, right. Moriarty."

"Bloody hell," John murmured under his breath.

Finally sensing the tension in the room, Mrs. Hudson turned to Sherlock and saw the deadened look in his eyes. "Sherlock dear, what's the matter? What's going-?"

Sherlock raised a long, pale hand, and everyone fell silent. The boy glanced up briefly at the top of the stairs. Then without a word, Sherlock knelt down and gathered Dannie into his arms before dashing into Mrs. Hudson's flat. John put a protective arm around the kindly old lady and followed them inside, shutting the door behind him.

Sherlock stood in the dark corner with Dannie still clinging to his slim shoulders. "Quickly," he whispered, "get away from the windows." Once the pair of them made it across the room, Sherlock turned to face the frantic Mrs. Hudson and said in a low voice, "Mrs. Hudson, I need you to remain calm and answer one question. Did this man bring anyone with him or is he alone?"

A bit dazed, Mrs. Hudson shook her head, "No, it's just him up there." She laid a trembling hand on one of Sherlock's thin, reedy arms, which were tightly locked around Dannie at the moment. "Sherlock, please, you're frightening me. What's going on?"

Sherlock took a deep breath and said, "I promise neither you nor Dannie will come to any harm as long as you stay here and keep quiet. You are not the intended target. I am."

"What does that mean?" Mrs. Hudson asked. "Who is that man?"

Dannie whimpered softly and tightened her grip around Sherlock's shoulders, but the boy gently lowered her to the floor on the other side of John. With adrenaline coursing through his veins, John stood at attention and whispered, "What do we do?"

Sherlock glanced up at the ceiling. "Jim most likely overheard our conversation in the hallway. He'll be expecting me to come upstairs."

"Oh God," John breathed. "Sherlock, no."

The boy gripped John's shoulders and whispered, "Whatever happens, do not leave this room until he's gone."

"Sherlock, no. What are you-?"

Sherlock stopped him midsentence with an apologetic kiss. Then he stepped back and said to Dannie and Mrs. Hudson, "Hold onto him."

It spoke volumes about how well they knew Sherlock that Dannie and Mrs. Hudson obeyed the command without question, each latching onto one of John's arms. In truth, John could have easily thrown them off, but he didn't have the heart to, which Sherlock had been counting on. Before John could protest further, Sherlock flew out into the hall and ran up the stairs.

The flat was eerily quiet. All of Sherlock's sharp senses were magnified as he cautiously walked inside and examined his surroundings. The door to the main bedroom was open. Sherlock crept along the wall and braced himself for whatever fresh hell awaited him. However, it was an old, painfully familiar kind of hell that Sherlock was faced with when he reached the doorway.

Jim stood in front of the desk across from the bed humming the tune of a classical piece by Johann Sebastian Bach. He was in the process of returning a strange assortment of supplies to an open briefcase on the desk: a pair of scissors, tape, a hole-puncher, a ball of twine, and a roll of satin red ribbon. Jim looked up and smiled lasciviously when he heard Sherlock step into the room. "There you are, dearie. I was starting to wonder what was taking so long." He waved a hand carelessly around the room. "Do you like what I've done with the place?"

It had been all Sherlock could do to not to pass out the moment he entered the room and saw what Jim had been busy creating. A long stretch of twine was strung up along the four walls of the bedroom, and bound to the twine with red satin ribbons were photographs printed on large, glossy sheets of paper. Pictures of fifteen-year-old Sherlock. Pictures of him tied up and drugged. Pictures of -

"Oh Sherlock, I know you've always been a bit camera shy," Jim purred. "Never really understood why, though. Just look at how lovely you are here, your mind and body so thoroughly wrecked, so beautiful, so broken, and all _mine_."

Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to keep his heart and respiratory rate under control. The array of photographs didn't just trigger memories of what the clients did to him. He was also reminded of what happened after they left.

The routine was always the same. Once the clients were finished with him, a couple of Jim's lackeys would clean him off and undo the restraints. Then Jim would pick up his limp, lifeless body and carry him back to the bedroom. After the abuse was over, when Jim laid him down on the bed, curled up next to him under the covers and held him close, whispered in his ear and told him what a perfect, lovely thing he was, that's when Sherlock really wanted to die.

"What did you come here for?" Sherlock whispered, standing still as if he was made of stone. "What do you want?"

Jim tilted his head. "Oh, I think you know," he responded silkily

Sherlock kept his face blank, his voice flat and emotionless. "Bit of a risk, isn't it? Kidnapping me in broad daylight?"

The man in the Westwood suit grimaced dramatically. "Kidnap you? No, no, no, no. You see, Sherlock, before the end of the night, you're going to come home to me." He raised a hand a brushed the tips of his fingers along one of the pictures on the wall. "I've waited so long for this, but I figured I'd be generous and allow you enough time to break things off with your precious John. I know he'll be heartbroken once you sit him down and tell him that you still belong to someone else. Maybe when he sees this, though, he'll understand." Jim's dark eyes flashed dangerously. "You best hope he does understand, Sherlock. I don't want to have to come back here."

Jim turned towards the desk and closed the briefcase. "I'll be expecting you at a quarter to midnight," he said, clicking the latches shut. "I already have a client lined up for this evening, and I've got a vial of heroin with your name on it." He drew closer to Sherlock now and reached up to caress his cheek. The boy flinched away from his touch, and Jim chuckled darkly. Then he gripped Sherlock by the back of the head and breathed in his ear, "Don't keep me waiting."

Downstairs in Mrs. Hudson's flat, John craned his neck up towards the ceiling, his whole body vibrating with anxiety. Dannie and Mrs. Hudson were tightly entwined around him like vines clinging to a tree, and he was now the one holding onto them, wrapping his arms protectively around them both. All three of them tensed when the sound of footsteps echoed from the stairwell and down the hall. Then the front door creaked open and shut, and a man in a Westwood suit stepped out onto the street.

John stared through the window and whispered to Mrs. Hudson, "Is that him?" The woman nodded timidly, and John felt anger and hatred grip his heart like an iron fist as he watched the man disappear into a cab. Then another sound echoed from upstairs, the sound of a pair of knobbly knees hitting the floor. "Sherlock," John gasped.

He pulled away from Dannie and Mrs. Hudson, and they let him go. With cold dread pooling in his stomach, John raced up the stairs and stumbled into the flat. He yelled Sherlock's name over and over, but all he could hear was his own heart pounding in his ears. Then he ran into the bedroom and found Sherlock crumpled on the floor at the foot of the bed.

"Oh my God," John yelped, crawling to him on all fours. Sherlock was lying on his side with his arms covering face, and John saw his chest moving as the boy took quick, sharp gasps of breath. "Sherlock, it's okay. It's me," John whispered. "Moriarty's gone." He reached out to touch him, to check to see if he was hurt, but Sherlock cringed and curled in on himself. "Sherlock, what happened? What did he-?"

John looked up and clamped a hand over his mouth. For a moment, he thought he might be sick.

The panorama of photographs strung along the wall showed graphic images of a thin, pale, fifteen-year-old Sherlock tied up or strapped down in various positions as strange men ravaged his body. Even in his worst nightmares, John had never imagined anything this horrifying.

As soon as the paralysis of shock began to subside, John did the first thing he could think of. He reached up to pull at the twine, and in one swift motion, he ripped it all down and let it fall to the floor. The action didn't bring him much relief, but that hardly mattered right now. John crawled back over to the boy on the floor and whispered, "Sherlock, it's alright. I've taken it all down." He gently lifted Sherlock into a sitting position and wrapped his arms around him. Sherlock was trembling, and as John cupped his face, he saw that the boy's eyes were still tightly closed. Then it suddenly hit him. It wasn't the pictures that Sherlock was afraid of seeing. "Sherlock, please," John begged, "open your eyes."

Hesitantly, Sherlock opened his eyes and saw John kneeling before him, his face radiating all the love that his tender heart possessed. In a soft, broken whisper, Sherlock said, "How can you still look at me like that?"

John smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkled with emotion. "How else am I supposed to look at you?"

Sherlock buried his faced against John's shoulder and allowed John to gently rock him back and forth until his breathing evened out. Then he felt one of the hands holding him slip away as John reached into his pocket for his mobile. Sherlock stared up at him and asked, "What are you doing?"

"I'm calling Lestrade." John scrolled through his contacts and found the number, but Sherlock's hand on his arm stopped him before he could dial.

"He'll bring Mycroft with him," Sherlock murmured faintly. "John, please. You can't let my brother see this."

John saw the pleading look in his eyes and whispered, "Alright. It's gonna be alright, Sherlock, but we need to talk to both of them. We've got to tell them everything."

The sound of tiny footsteps running up the stairs made them both jump. Dannie's timid squeak echoed from the sitting room. "Sherlock?"

"Dannie, no," Sherlock called back. "Don't." It wasn't gut-wrenching shame that strained his voce now, but fear. He sounded scared. For her.

The girl appeared in the doorway. "Sherlock, what happened?" Then she saw it. One of the photographs was lying face-up on the floor.

"Dannie," Sherlock moaned weakly. It was too late. Dannie's face turned stark white. Then she looked back up, all the light gone from her eyes.

The girl whispered faintly, "You lived like this too?"

More footsteps resounded from the stairwell as Mrs. Hudson hurried up to the flat. She called out their names, her voice looming closer. Sherlock looked on helplessly as Dannie started to hyperventilate, a hand pressed against her sinuses. She could smell blood already. He turned and buried his face against John's shoulder. There wasn't any way he could help her now. Just the sight of him was making it worse.

John didn't know what to do or say. He simply wrapped his arms around Sherlock and held him tight just as Mrs. Hudson drew near the doorway. Dannie stumbled backward and managed to collapse into Mrs. Hudson's arms right before the seizure hit.

* * *

Lestrade and Mycroft sat across from Sherlock and John in Mrs. Hudson's flat, the two boys nestled together on the sofa with their hands intertwined. A clear plastic bag lay on the coffee table filled with the jumble of twine and ribbon that Lestrade had managed to disentangle the evidence from. He was wearing a pair of latex gloves as he quickly sorted through the photographs, not wanting to look at them any longer than necessary. Mycroft pressed his fingertips against his temple and averted his gaze. This relieved Sherlock somewhat, but the pained expression on his brother's face made his chest hurt.

Nothing felt real. Sherlock tilted his head back against the cushions and turned to glance at the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson was sitting at the small square table with Dannie cradled in her lap gently rocking the girl back and forth. Dannie shifted in her arms and hid her face against Mrs. Hudson's shoulder. She still couldn't look at him.

Finally, Lestrade stacked the photographs together and placed them in a second evidence bag. Then he laid them facedown on the coffee table. He cleared his throat and muttered, "So, um, tell me if I have this right. All of these pictures were taken in Jim Moriarty's flat?"

"Yes," Sherlock responded blankly, staring straight ahead. "There's a soundproof office in his flat. The bed they tied me to was some kind of standard issue hospital cot. Jim had it bolted to the floor to keep the metal headboard from banging against the wall so he could hear me…" Sherlock felt John's hand tighten around his. The slight pressure helped keep him anchored to reality. "Anyways, it's probably still there."

Lestrade nodded. Then he cleared his throat again. "And these are all of the clients who, um…" He stopped when he saw Sherlock shake his head. "There were more?"

John turned all the way towards him, his expression stricken. Sherlock closed his eyes and extricated his hand from John's, hugging his arms against his thin frame.

"There were a hundred and thirty-seven in total."

"Christ," Lestrade muttered, massaging his eyelids.

Unhindered by the present company, John reached up and cupped Sherlock's face in both hands. Sherlock let John rest his forehead against his own, shame wracking his limbs as he hunched in on himself and whispered, "I'm sorry."

John sighed and kissed his temple. "We've been over this. You have no reason to apologize for what you went through. None of this is your fault."

The men sat silently and allowed Sherlock and John to have a moment. Then once they composed themselves, Mycroft voiced his own question.

"Is Victor in these photographs?" he asked, pointing to the second evidence bag.

The boy shook his head. "Victor was one of the clients who paid the extra fee to take me back to his place for a… private session." Sherlock took a deep breath and stared down at his hands. "When I woke up in the hospital, I tried to piece together what had happened in the last few hours, but I couldn't really remember how I got there."

Mycroft gripped the handle of his umbrella, his knuckles turning white. "You stopped breathing at one point," he murmured faintly. The pain in the room was palpable now, hanging heavy in the space between them. "Victor told the paramedics that he found you passed out in the alley and brought you up to his flat to try to help you. Then at the hospital, the doctors saw all the strange marks on your body, and so they took a rape kit." Mycroft rubbed his eyelids wearily and sighed. "You were fifteen years old."

Sherlock steeled himself and met his brother's gaze. "I'm not a child anymore, Mycroft."

"No, you're not," Mycroft conceded, "but you're still my little brother." The man's eyes flicked over the stack of photographs again, and Sherlock knew what he was thinking.

"I wish it was that simple," Sherlock said quietly, "but you can't just make Jim disappear like you did with Victor. He's too well-connected."

Lestrade reached over and laid a hand on Mycroft's arm. "I'm sorry, love, but he's right. I have to do this by the book." The detective packed away the evidence in his forensics bag. "The bad news is I'm going to have to reopen Sherlock's missing persons case to add in all this new information."

Mycroft sighed. "And the good news?"

"The good news is that I'll probably be able to get a search warrant for Jim Moriarty's flat. I just need a day or two to get a judge to sign off on it."

Sherlock closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. He didn't have that kind of time.

With the meeting adjourned, the four of them got to their feet and walked to the front door. At the threshold, Mycroft paused for a moment and set down his umbrella. Then he took a few steps toward the younger Holmes. Sherlock braced himself, not knowing what to expect. In an uncharacteristic move, Mycroft put his arms around his brother and wrapped him in a tight embrace.

Sherlock swallowed a lump in his throat and muttered, "I can see why you tend to avoid this sort of thing, caring. It's rather debilitating, isn't it?"

Mycroft stepped back and rested his hands on the boy's slim shoulders. "True," he admitted, "but in your case it can't really be helped."

Just like that, Mycroft and Lestrade were gone, and Sherlock finally came back up to breathe. He retreated to the foot of the stairs and jammed his knuckles against the crook of his left elbow. John settled next to him on the step and studied him with concern. "You okay?" John asked. Then he shook his head. "Sorry, stupid question."

"It's alright," Sherlock muttered, struggling to keep his voice steady. "Apparently that's one of those questions people are supposed to ask even when the answer is obvious." He took slow, controlled breaths and pressed harder against the inside of his elbow. "My arm hurts. It's all tensed up, and there's really only one way to fix that. I left my razor at home last night. I could make due with a piece of broken glass or something, but at this point I'd probably end up hitting a vein."

John slid his hands over Sherlock's arm and gently nudged the boy's fist away. He kneaded along the line of his forearm with his thumbs, massaging the tense muscles. Then he clasped Sherlock's hand between his own. "I need you to do something for me, okay?" John said softly. "I know it hurts, but I need you to feel loved. I need you to understand how much I love you," John kissed his palm and held in against his cheek. "You're my whole world now, and I don't want to lose you."

Sherlock's heart contracted in his chest. Knowing what he had to do tonight was terrifying enough, but being reminded of how much he had to lose scared him even more. He buried his face against John's neck and whispered, "Just promise you won't be mad at me."

John blinked in confusion. "What the hell would I be mad at you for?"

Sherlock was saved from answering when Mrs. Hudson stepped out into the hallway. He and John quickly stood up as if it was the queen entering their midst. Mrs. Hudson wiped a bit of moisture from her eyes and sniffed before saying in a bravely cheery voice, "If you boys would like a cuppa, I can put the kettle on."

"That's alright Mrs. Hudson," John responded. "You've been through enough today."

Sherlock looked down at the floor and hugged his arms around himself. "I'm sorry for all the trouble I've caused."

Mrs. Hudson's face softened. "Oh my dear," she whispered, pulling the lanky teen into a tight embrace, "you don't have anything to be sorry about. I'm the one who let that monster walk right through the door and into my…well, it's really your flat, isn't it?" She stepped back and smiled. "I don't think I'll be able to face meeting any more prospective tenants anyways, but I think you were always meant to have it. 221B is your home whenever you want it to be." She looked over at John. "That goes for you too, John. There's a second bedroom upstairs." Mrs. Hudson blushed. "Of course you probably won't be needing two bedrooms."

John grinned and shook his head. "Who knows, though? Dannie may get tired of the basement apartment and decide to move upstairs with us."

Sherlock gasped. "Oh God, Dannie."

He hurried back into Mrs. Hudson's flat and dashed to the kitchen. Dannie was standing alone by the counter. She seemed to be having a staring contest with the knife drawer. Sherlock stepped toward her cautiously, not wanting to startle her. He drummed his fingers on the counter to let her know he was there. She didn't look up.

After a lull of silence, Sherlock said quietly, "Is it gone yet?"

Still staring down at the knife drawer, the girl nodded. "It took a while, but the image is all fragmented and fuzzy now." She breathed a shaky sigh. "I still have a general idea of what I saw." Dannie gripped her left arm, pressing her thumb hard against her wrist. "I could really use a hit of morphine."

"I know, me too," Sherlock whispered, "but we can't. You're eight months clean, and I'm… five days clean. We've been doing well."

"It takes one to know one, right?" Dannie finally looked up at him, her enormous eyes glistening. "I know what kids at school say about me, about why I did this," she said, pointing to her scar. "It's strange how accurate some of their theories are."

Sherlock shrugged. "Even idiots can make lucky guesses."

"You don't guess, though," Dannie countered. "You filter through all the random details and figure out the truth. What is it about me that made it obvious to you?"

Sherlock sighed and glanced down at the sink. "Apparently seizures in the right temporal lobe are known to be symptomatic of a very… specific kind of childhood trauma."

"I suppose there are some perks to having no visual memory," she said with a sad smile, "but you remember everything, don't you?"

Sherlock kneeled down and got on eye-level with her. "I'm okay, Dannie."

"You don't have to be so strong all the time, you know," the girl said softly. "Doesn't it get exhausting?"

Sherlock gazed steadily back at her. "You tell me."

All at once, Dannie broke down and collapsed against Sherlock's shoulders. She wrapped her arms around him, and Sherlock hugged her back, only slightly disconcerted by being embraced for the third time in the span of five minutes. John and Mrs. Hudson chose that exact moment to appear in the kitchen, and what they seemed to think would be the most appropriate response to the situation was to get down on the cold tile floor with them and join in on the hug. Sandwiched between Dannie, Mrs. Hudson, and John, Sherlock started to feel a bit overwhelmed.

"Alright, I think I've had enough hugs for today," he murmured. "I've officially reached my limit."

The others laughed and as all four of them broke apart and leaned back against the cupboards. None of them seemed ready to stand yet.

"How's your hip feeling, Mrs. Hudson?" John asked.

"Not too bad," Mrs. Hudson answered. "I could probably still use an herbal soother, to be honest. Got myself a bit worked up."

"Well, the crisis is being dealt with," John reassured her. "Sherlock's brother and Inspector Lestrade are gonna keep surveillance on the flat just as an extra precaution, but you'll be safe here tonight."

Dannie and Mrs. Hudson glanced at each other and then back at Sherlock and John. "If this is the safest place for you to be," Mrs. Hudson said, "then you two should stay here as well."

John smiled up at Sherlock. "Is that alright with you?"

Sherlock took his hand and interlocked their fingers. "There's nowhere else I'd rather be." He looked around at his little family. They would be safe here tonight. Sherlock was going to make sure of that.


	11. Chapter 11

The digital clock on the bedside table flashed 11:15. Sherlock lay on his side with John's body tucked up against his and stared at the dark shadows on the wall. He and John were both fully clothed and stretched out on top of the covers, which made it logistically less difficult for Sherlock to slip out of bed without waking John. Still, it wasn't an easy thing to do. He brushed his lips lightly against John's forehead, wanting to savor this last bit of contact with him. Then he rolled over and sat up on the edge of the bed.

Going over the plan in his mind, Sherlock knew that he had to leave his mobile here so that Mycroft and Lestrade couldn't use it to track him. He pressed a button to turn on the screen, the harsh light forcing him to squint in the dark as he opened a blank text and composed a note.

 _Don't worry. Everything's going to be okay._

If this was his last chance to say it, he might as well say it now.

 _I love you._

Leaving the phone on the bedside table, Sherlock quickly put on his shoes and snuck out into the hallway. The flat was dark and silent, lit only by the ghostly glow of the lampposts shining through the windows. Sherlock crossed the sitting room and looked down at the street below. As he'd expected, there was a squad car parked along the sidewalk standing guard over 221B. Of course, there were other ways in and out of the flat.

Sherlock crept up the small set of stairs leading to the second bedroom. He had only been in this room once before, but he knew this was where the fire escape was. A strange yet familiar feeling came over him like he was submerged underwater. Without a glance back, Sherlock opened the small window and disappeared into the night.

In the main bedroom, John's limbs twitched as a troubling dream played out on the projector screen in his mind.

 _He was running down a long corridor unsure of where he was going. At the end of the hall, a door opened, and he hurried inside. The room was dark but he could see a thin figure curled up on the floor. He drew closer and realized it was Sherlock._

" _Sherlock!" John fell to his knees and reached out to touch him, to grab him, to hold him, but somehow he couldn't manage it. The boy lay still and unresponsive. As John screamed his name again, he felt invisible hands pulling him away. Dark figures surrounded Sherlock and tugged at his limbs, rolling him onto his back and pinning him to the floor. "Stop it!" John shouted. "Stop it! Leave him alone!"_

 _For a brief moment, Sherlock's eyes opened. He turned to look at him and whispered, "I'm sorry, John."_

 _Why does he always say that? What the hell does that even mean?_

 _John continued shouting and struggling against the hands holding him. A man in a Westwood suit appeared, hovering over the boy. He took out a long knife and held it above Sherlock's chest. Sherlock lay motionless, his face resolutely calm as the man plunged the knife into his heart._

"NO!" John screamed, jolting awake. He blinked and looked around the dark room. His racing heart beat impossibly faster when he reached out and found the space next to him on the bed was empty. "Sherlock?"

John got up and turned on the lamp. He took a deep breath and pressed the heels of his palms his eyes as he tried to shake the panic building inside him. _It was just a dream,_ he told himself. _Just some fucked-up nightmare._ "Sherlock?" he called again. Then he glanced down at Sherlock's phone lying open on the bedside table. With shaking hands, he picked it up and read the note.

"Oh my God," John breathed. "Oh fuck."

Taking a moment to get himself under control, John pulled his own phone out and dialed Lestrade's number. The call went to voicemail several times, and John was sure he was going to lose his mind when finally he heard the D.I.'s voice on the other end of the line.

"I'm in a meeting," Lestrade said gruffly. "Is this an emer-?"

"Sherlock's gone," John all but shouted into the phone. "He left a note."

"Shit," Lestrade whispered. "Why would he leave in the middle of the night? Did he say where he was going?"

Hardly able to speak, John shook his head. Then he realized how stupid he was being and answered, "No, I have no clue where he is. He left his phone here. Is there any other way you can track him?"

"I'll call Mycroft and have him check the CCTV cameras." Lestrade sighed wearily. "Are you sure you don't know where he could have run off to?"

John closed his eyes and thought for a moment. The one guess that he managed to come up with terrified him. "Where exactly is Jim Moriarty's flat located?"

"It's somewhere near the university, but why would he go there?" Muffled voices echoed on the other side of the line. "I've gotta go. We'll find him, John. Just promise me that you're going to stay put."

"Yes, alright," John responded numbly. Then he rang off and stared down at his phone. "The hell I am."

It was John's first time climbing down a fire escape. The way down was steep and John's hands were slippery with sweat, but he managed to reach the ground without injury. He stood for a moment in the alley and concentrated on figuring out which way to go, wishing he had a map of London in his head the way Sherlock did. He recalled walking with him to the university library months ago and tried to remember the street signs they had followed. Then it came to him. "Luxborough Street."

After about half a mile of running at full steam, John stopped to catch his breath when he drew near the university campus. He doubled over with his hands on his knees, shaking with the effort to remain standing. Big Ben chimed in the distance, signaling half-past eleven. John glanced up at the sidewalk and felt his heart leap when he saw a solitary figure walking under the light of the streetlamps.

"Sherlock!" John sprinted forward just as the boy stopped and turned to face him. Sherlock caught John in his arms as he collapsed against him and clung to him tightly.

"John. Oh my God, John," Sherlock gasped, breathing as if he was the one who had just run a half a mile. He pulled back and gripped John's shoulders. "You can't be here," he whispered urgently. "Jim knows how to hack into the CCTV cameras. He'll see you. He'll know you followed me. You have to go back."

"Sherlock, no," John panted, gasping for air. "Where the hell are you going?"

Sherlock dropped his hands and stepped away. "You tracked me down. You know where I'm going."

"Oh God." John closed his eyes and tried to slow his breathing. "Why? What did Moriarty say to you when you were alone with him?"

Sherlock looked up at the skyline. "I have less than fifteen minutes to show up at his flat. Otherwise he'll return to Baker Street, and then he won't just be coming after me, he'll be coming after you too."

"So your plan is to sacrifice yourself?"

"Lestrade reopened my missing persons case," Sherlock said quietly. "Hopefully they'll find me in the right flat this time."

John sighed wearily and pulled Sherlock back into a tight embrace. "I swore to myself that I'd never let that bastard touch you again."

"John-"

"Sherlock, no," John whimpered. "I won't let him do this to you."

Feeling his resolve start to crumble, Sherlock cupped John's cheek and tilted his face toward him. He searched desperately for the right words to say to make John understand. "Jim is aware by now that the most effective way to hurt me is by hurting you." He rested his forehead against John's. "I promise I can survive anything, anything except that."

John's throat tightened painfully, but before he regained the ability to speak, they were interrupted. The screech of tires and the thud of slamming doors reverberated in the air as black car pulled up by the sidewalk. With his eyes still fixed on John, Sherlock shoved him away and shouted, "John, RUN!"

Of course, John had no intentions of running. Not that he stood a chance of getting away at that point. It was as if he had fallen once more into the nightmare. John yelled and fought against the rough hands gripping him as he watched two of the assailants grab Sherlock and drag him towards the boot of the car. The sound of Sherlock screaming for him to run was the last thing John heard before a black hood was pulled over his head.

* * *

When the hood was removed, John found himself propped up against a black leather couch with his hands cuffed behind his back. He blinked in the soft lighting and looked around the room. In the center there was a small table with a tourniquet and a syringe filled with amber liquid lying on its surface, and there was a cot in the corner with a pair of handcuffs dangling from a hook attached to the metal headboard.

Over by the door, Sherlock was pressed forward up against the wall. He'd been uncuffed, but Jim had the boy's wrist pinned over his head. Jim leaned his forehead against the back of Sherlock's neck and breathed him in. "So good to have you home, Sherl," Jim purred.

"Get your hands off of him!" John growled fiercely, heedless of the gun pointed at his head.

Jim glanced briefly at him as if he just noticed that John was there. "And Johnny boy's here too! He's sweet. I can see why you like him." Jim slid his hands down to Sherlock's waist. "Did you let him fuck you?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and shut him out. He had to think. He had to review the data in his head and figure out some way to get John to safety.

"When we met you were just a shy little virgin," Jim crooned, loud enough for John to hear. "You didn't even want to come to bed the first night I brought you home, but still, I laid you down on the mattress, and you took it like a good boy," he rocked his hips forward, "my good boy."

"SHUT UP!" John yelled, struggling against the cuffs. "Stop, just stop it!"

Jim shook his head and backed up towards the center of the room. "He still doesn't seem to understand, Sherlock. I suppose he didn't get a good look at those photographs after all. How disappointing." He lit a cigarette and took a long, dramatic drag. "Sherlock, take your shirt off."

Pressed against the wall, the boy tensed. When Sherlock didn't comply immediately, a small click resounded from the gun pointed at John's head as a warning. Slowly, Sherlock retracted his arms from the sleeves and slipped out of the black t-shirt, his back exposed.

Just when John thought the whole situation couldn't get any more fucked-up, it did.

The bones of Sherlock's shoulder blades and vertebrae protruded under his alabaster skin, which was marred by a patchwork of faded pinkish-white scar tissue. Across his shoulder blades, however, the scars were darker, as if they'd been branded there with a hot blade. These jagged lines formed four letters, one word, "MINE."

John hung his head and took a shaky breath. "Oh my God."

Sherlock hunched his shoulders and shuddered. He could practically hear Jim silently gloating, could sense the pain and rage coming off John in waves. All three of the armed henchmen stood by, watching and waiting, and the tension in the room was going to hit a critical point unless Sherlock said something now to make everyone shut up. He knew what Jim wanted to hear. That high, cold voice was always reverberating in his mind palace, tormenting him with poisonous thoughts.

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock said in a low voice. "You never should have gotten involved with someone like me." Squaring his shoulders, he turned and pressed his back against the wall. "I know it's in your nature to want to help people, to want to fix them, but the truth is you can't fix me. There's too much damage done. It's written all over my body, what other people have done to me, what I've done to myself... These scars aren't ever going to heal."

John screwed his eyes shut and bit back a sob. He wanted to run to Sherlock. He wanted to wrap the boy in his arms and tell him all the things he'd meant to say but never had.

 _You don't need anyone to fix you, Sherlock, because you're not broken. In spite of everything that bastard did to you, he wasn't able to break you. You're the strongest, most resilient, amazing, incredible person I've ever met, and I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you so much._

Trapped and utterly heartbroken, John couldn't move. He couldn't speak. He could hardly breathe. "Sherlock…" he murmured faintly, "Sher…"

"Look at my fucking arm, John!" Sherlock exclaimed, fighting to keep the strain out of his voice. John slowly raised his head, tears streaming down his face. "This is who I am, who I've been all along. I'm a _whore_ and a _junkie._ I'm his _plaything,_ " Sherlock shut his eyes tight, "and I'm sorry, but I can't be anything else. I don't know how."

It was unbearable watching John coming undone at those words. Sherlock swallowed thickly and turned his gaze on Jim. "You have what you want. Let him go."

Jim tilted his head and grinned. "First things first, dearie," he said, pointing to the table. "I need you to show me that you remember how this works."

Sherlock walked slowly to the center of the room and took a seat at the table in front of the loaded syringe. He laid his wrecked arm out on the table and tied the tourniquet above his elbow. It took a minute to find a good vein that wasn't scarred or collapsed, but once he found one, he inserted the needle and depressed the plunger.

As the powerful opiate flooded his veins and clouded his consciousness, Sherlock ripped off the tourniquet and stared up coldly at Jim's smug expression. "Satisfied?"

"What's this?" Jim asked, grabbing hold of Sherlock's wrist. He glanced down at the drawing of a heart below Sherlock's palm and smirked. "A heart?" Jim purred. "Isn't that just adorable?" He took one last drag from his cigarette he pressed the lit end against Sherlock's wrist, right over the heart. Sherlock fought to keep still and quiet as the cigarette ground into his skin and burned him. It wasn't the pain that turned his stomach as much as the malevolent glint he saw flash in Jim's eyes.

Jim flicked the cigarette away and casually lit another. Then he gestured towards the henchman in the corner and muttered, "Moran, take John Watson outside and shoot him."

Sherlock lost all sense of equilibrium.

"NO!" He slid out of the chair and hit the floor just as Moran grabbed John and dragged him off the sofa. The other two henchmen hauled Sherlock off the ground and started carrying him towards the bed in the corner. Weakened by the drugs, Sherlock struggled in vain to break free, to run to John, to shield him from harm. "JOHN!"

"SHERLOCK!" John thrashed and kicked in his executioner's arms. Helplessly, he watched Jim's men throw Sherlock onto the bed and pin him to the mattress. "Stop it! Get off of him!" John yelled. "SHERLOCK!"

Moran's heavy footsteps echoed as he carried John out of the flat. Sherlock thrashed against the rough hands holding him down. "JOHN!" Sherlock screamed, his voice breaking. He couldn't see or hear what was going on anymore, but he kept struggling, kept yelling, kept fighting to make it all stop. This couldn't be happening, it just couldn't. "JOHN!"

Finally the echo of a gunshot rang through the air. Then Sherlock lay still as everything inside him turned to dust.


	12. Chapter 12

John Watson sat kneeling on the cold pavement, his ears ringing. It took a moment for him to fully comprehend the fact that he was still breathing, that he wasn't lying facedown in a pool of blood. It didn't seem possible. It wasn't as if Moran could have missed from two feet away. John's whole body jerked and tensed when he suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder. Then he opened his eyes, and Greg Lestrade's face loomed into view.

"Christ, John, are you alright?" Lestrade murmured. He reached around and uncuffed John's wrists. Still a bit dazed, John blinked up at Lestrade as the man helped him to his feet. Then he felt an icy jolt in his stomach. He gripped the front of Lestrade's jacket and hung onto him for support.

"Sherlock, he's…Moriarty's got him," John gasped between short breaths. "Oh God, we've gotta get him out of there…we've got to-"

"John, take it easy." Lestrade said gently, keeping a firm hand on John's shoulder. He glanced back at the hulking man lying on the pavement with a bullet in his temple. If he had gotten here a second later, that could have been John. "You're probably in shock right now. Just try to calm down."

"There's no time! Don't you understand?" John panted. "We have to stop Moriarty. Right before they dragged me out, he made Sherlock inject heroin into his arm. He's gonna hurt him. He's… oh God." John's knees buckled beneath him.

"Alright, John, just breathe," Lestrade murmured, rubbing his back. "Help is on the way. My team is on standby. We just needed confirmation that he's in there before we storm the fortress. Mycroft is flying over in a bloody helicopter."

"Well, tell them to fucking hurry," John said gruffly, his heart still racing. "I don't know what's happening to him."

* * *

The handcuffs dug into Sherlock's wrists as he lay facedown on the cot. He'd been here countless times before, but this was the one time he truly felt dead. Jim's calloused hands roamed over the plush hills and valleys of Sherlock's slender body. Still, Sherlock couldn't feel anything except the deep psychosomatic pain gripping his heart. John was gone, nothing could bring him back, and nothing could make this pain go away. Sherlock just wanted it all to be over.

"Oh Sherlock," Jim purred. "I've never seen you like this before."

He sat on the edge of the bed and reached up to stroke Sherlock's hair. Sherlock breathed shallowly against the pillows, his eyes stinging with tears. A few salty drops spilled down his cheek, and Jim brought up a hand to brush them away.

"You were always so quiet in bed," Jim said in a hushed tone. "I had to tell the clients to rough you up a bit in order to get so much as whimper out of you, but I've never seen you cry. I've never seen you this shattered until now. I must say, it's fascinating."

Jim studied the boy for a long moment. Then he looked up and motioned to one of the remaining henchmen. "Call the client back. Give him my regrets and tell him that Sherlock's services are no longer available." He turned back to Sherlock and ran a hand over him once more. "I want to remember you always, just like this."

Sherlock didn't know what that meant. He didn't care.

After standing up and straightening his Westwood suit, Jim walked to the door. On the way out, he called over his shoulder, "Uncuff him and put his clothes back on. Then bring him up to the roof."

 _The roof._ Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief.

It was a long journey up eight flights of stairs to the roof. Jim's men half-dragged, half-carried Sherlock the whole way, but there was no fight in him anymore. Small fluorescent lights shone over the open doorway leading out onto the dark rooftop. Jim stood casually by the ledge as his employees approached with Sherlock in tow and laid the boy down at his feet. Jim waved them away and looked down at Sherlock curiously.

"Come now, Sherlock. Don't you want to see the view?" he muttered, tapping at the boy with his foot. "Good thing I live in a tall building. This is the perfect spot for it."

Slowly, Sherlock raised his head and crawled toward the ledge. He glanced over the edge of the building. It was a long way down.

"I can see the headlines in the newspapers now. Seventeen-year-old boy falls to his death. It's a bit of a tragedy, really. So young, so brilliant," Jim shook his head in mock solemnity "What could have happened to this boy? What could have destroyed him so completely that he chose to end it all this way?"

He stepped away and took a seat on the ledge to get a good view of the show. Apparently Jim had grown bored with the old routine of drugging him, raping him, and selling him. He wanted to own Sherlock completely by driving him to suicide. Of course, Sherlock didn't need much of a push.

It wasn't a push he felt now, though, it was a pull, tugging at his heavy heart and dragging him down towards the pavement. Sherlock stepped onto the ledge and looked up at the starlit sky. He didn't believe in heaven or hell or an immortal soul or any of that, but now he wanted to believe in something. If the ramblings of quantum physicists about dark matter had any merit, if somehow the human consciousness could continue to exist in perfect, timeless, universal space, then maybe somewhere out there he'd find John. Sherlock closed his eyes and raised his arms.

Then he felt another tug at his heart, something pulling him back.

 _Don't ever do that,_ mind palace John whispered. _Promise me. No matter what's going through that wonky brain of yours, you won't ever, ever do that to yourself._

 _Promise me._

"Take your time," Jim purred. "There's no rush."

Sherlock breathed a shaky sigh and lowered his arms. Then he stepped down from the ledge and turned to face Jim. All the strength that had been drained from him returned full force. "Sorry," he murmured. "It is rather tempting, but I'm afraid I'll have to decline."

Jim grimaced in annoyance. "Oh stop trying to be clever and just kill yourself already."

Sherlock stood his ground. "Honestly, I'd love to oblige, but I can't. I made a promise to John that I wouldn't ever do that to myself, and I intend to keep that promise. If you want me dead, you'll have to kill me."

Jim's glib, charming demeanor was starting crack, and the monster underneath was threatening to emerge. As he rose to his feet and approached the boy, he pulled a Browning L9A1 out his pocket and pointed it at Sherlock. "Get back up there," he snarled, "or I'll-"

"You can't make people take their own lives at gunpoint. That would completely defeat the purpose." Sherlock smirked. "You're becoming too angry to think rationally, because you see it now, don't you? It doesn't matter what you do to me. The fact remains that I don't belong to you anymore. I belong to John Watson."

"John Watson is dead!"

"And you're returning me to him. How very kind of you."

Just like that, Jim snapped. He struck Sherlock across the face with the gun and knocked him to the ground. Tossing the firearm aside, he straddled the boy and lunged for his throat. Sherlock felt the man's fingers close around his windpipe, but he didn't struggle.

Back in control, Jim chuckled darkly. "Normally I dislike getting my hands dirty, but I have to admit, this is much more intimate," he said quietly, tightening his grip. "It's almost a good as fucking you."

The boy barely heard his taunts. Deprived of oxygen, Sherlock felt himself slipping away. He closed his eyes and lay still, waiting for it all to be over.

Suddenly, Jim's hands released him. It took a moment to register the sounds that had broken the silence on the rooftop, the sound of the door crashing open, the stampede of footsteps, the whir of helicopter blades overhead. The helicopter's bright searchlight lit up the darkness, and Sherlock blinked and opened his eyes. "Dammit," he muttered under his breath.

"So you did tell Big Brother about me after all. I'm flattered," Jim purred as the British Government and half of Scotland Yard closed in. "Pity I didn't get to finish." With his hands over his head, Jim leaned forward and breathed in Sherlock's ear. "When you're ready to finish yourself off, come find me. I'd like to watch."

Sherlock cringed and turned his head away as Jim was pulled off of him. The man was still cackling like a maniac while an officer slapped on the cuffs and recited his legal right to silence. The roar of the helicopter grew louder as it prepared to land, strong gusts of cold air billowing over the surface of the roof. Sherlock ignored the other officers who were shining their torchlights over him, checking his pulse, and asking him insipid questions to see if he was conscious. He wanted them to leave him alone, he wanted to sink into oblivion, he wanted it all to stop.

When Sherlock sensed everyone backing away, he knew it meant that his brother was here, walking towards him. A thin arm slid underneath him and cradled his head and shoulders as a tremulous voice shouted, "Sherlock, Sherlock, are you alright?"

Sherlock kept his eyes closed and muttered, "You should have let him kill me."

Mycroft stared down at his little brother with a mixture of relief and bewilderment. "What are you talking about? We got here just in time."

"No you didn't, no you didn't," Sherlock whispered brokenly. "John-"

"SHERLOCK!"

The boy froze, not daring to trust his senses. Even in his mind palace, he wouldn't have been able to hear John's voice that loudly and clearly. Sherlock's heart rose into his throat while his head swam with doubt. His life couldn't have been turned upside down and then simply set right again. The universe was never that kind.

Sherlock opened his eyes and saw Mycroft wearing one of his rare, gentle, if somewhat tight-lipped smiles. Slowly, his brother relinquished him and slipped away as a shorter, stronger pair of arms encompassed him. When he blinked up at the person holding him now, he came face to face with a pair of blue eyes with rings of hazel around the middle, and then Sherlock came back up to breathe.

"John, oh my God, John," Sherlock gasped in a hoarse voice. A surge of emotion flooded him, more powerful than the drugs coursing through his veins. He reached up and cupped John's face, needing reassurance that what was he seeing was real, that it wasn't all a hallucination.

 _Kind eyes, strong arms, gentle hands, caring heart._ "John."

"I'm here," John said softly. "It's alright. Lestrade killed Moran before he could shoot me." As if to confirm this, Lestrade sidled up next to Mycroft as they both stood by and watched the two boys reunite. Sherlock felt John's hand brush back his curls and John's lips press against his forehead. "God, you scared the hell out of me, Sherlock," he whispered. "Please tell me you're okay." John studied the gash on Sherlock's cheek and the bruises around his throat. "Jesus, what did he do to you?"

"I'm okay," Sherlock murmured, his voice still a bit raspy. "I promise I'm okay. Jim… he just… tried to kill me because I refused to kill myself."

John's whole body tensed. "Oh my God. Is that what he brought you up to the roof for?"

Sherlock raised himself to a sitting position and clung to John. "I was going to jump," he said quietly as John's arms tightened around him. "Then I heard your voice in my head telling me not to, and so I stepped down from the ledge told Jim that I wouldn't do it, that he'd have to kill me instead."

John breathed a shaky sigh and whispered, "I almost lost you."

"I almost lost you," Sherlock whispered back.

The scene on the rooftop became a blur, all the lights and the noise and the people. Sherlock and John stayed locked in their own little world, their foreheads pressed together. Every touch of John's hands, every brush of his lips was a miracle.

After a moment, Mycroft cleared his throat and said in his usual posh tone, "Well, little brother, I would insist on a brief hospital visit just to keep you under observation for a few hours, but I doubt you'd be agreeable to that." A small smile twitched in the corner of his mouth as Sherlock slowly opened his eyes and stared up at him. "I'm sure John here is perfectly capable of looking after you."

With his chin resting on John's shoulder, Sherlock looked from Lestrade to Mycroft and whispered, "Thank you."

John drew back and kissed Sherlock's forehead once more. "Come on," he said softly. "Let's go home."

* * *

All the lights were still off inside 221B when the squad car dropped them off at Baker Street. Sherlock and John stood on the front steps for a moment before unlocking the door and going inside.

"Dannie and Mrs. Hudson are probably still asleep," Sherlock muttered.

John took his hand and interlocked their fingers. "We can tell them about our close brush with death in the morning."

Sherlock nodded. "Good, because I'd rather not have that conversation while I'm still a bit high."

As quietly as possible, Sherlock and John snuck in through the door and crept upstairs to the flat. John turned on the light in the bedroom. Everything looked the same as if they had never left.

Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed while John went to the kitchen to grab the first aid kit. The way Sherlock was hunching his shoulders when John reentered the room filled him with concern. He carefully disinfected and bandaged the cut on Sherlock's cheek, though his hands shook a bit while he tended to the cigarette burn on his wrist. When he was done, Sherlock tugged his sleeve back up quickly and hugged his arms around himself.

John settled on the bed next to him and asked, "You okay?"

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, as if trying to decide if he should say out loud what he was thinking. "The things I said earlier… in Jim's flat…I didn't mean them," Sherlock murmured. "Well, I have thought those things before, but I know now that none of it's true." He paused uncertainly. "It's not true is it?"

The vulnerability in Sherlock's voice made John's heart hurt. "No, Sherlock. It isn't, of course it isn't." The words were sincere, but John still didn't feel like it was enough. He needed to show him. John tugged lightly on the hem of Sherlock's black t-shirt. "Can you take this off for me?"

Hesitantly, Sherlock obeyed John's request, turning as he did so to lie facedown on the bed. John kneeled above him and laid a gently on Sherlock's exposed back. Then he leaned down and pressed his lips against jagged lines on Sherlock's skin.

"These scars show that you went through hell and survived," John whispered, tenderly kissing each one. "You're strong, you're brilliant, you're amazing, and you most certainly are _not_ broken." He eased down on the bed beside the boy, and Sherlock turned to face him. His mercurial eyes shone bright in the low light, and John knew that Sherlock believed him.

There were only a few hours of darkness left. Sherlock and John lay awake and held each other as they waited for the dawn.

"Please, John," Sherlock whispered, "tell me you're real."

"I'm here, Sherlock," John said softly. "I'm not going anywhere."

* * *

 **Thanks for reading :) If you want more from this story, there's a 4 part epilogue/sequel that I've recently posted called "It Yet Remains to See."**


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